Homage to Hoek's Pizza

There’s nothing like drowning in the sickening polish of the 6th street zombies. Friday and Saturday nights, while on my way to my cherished Red River district venues, I endure the treacherous lameness of what lies in between me and my destination. Mid-life crisis suffering suburbanites trying to regain their youth, hip gangster wannabes with staring problems in white-tee knee length dresses who feel that thinly veiled precursors to sexual assault is a way to woo the ladies, fratty dude-bro cockswinger clones throwing back daddy’s money into their gut, and impenetrable anti-social groups of pretty people wondering why they never seem to be able to shed their singleitis disease.

I hear the same fecal decaying Styrofoam pop song blaring out of each and every bar, burning animal corpses coating my vegetarian nose with babe the pig’s partial cremation, playing hopscotch over the puddles of overpriced alcohol vomit left by bar patrons who thought that they could drink their boredom away.

Until like I just ran into Chuck Schuldiner and Tony Iommi and shook their hands at the same time, like I have just found a stunning, intelligent, funny, horny, smart ass female that cares how my day went and likes me for who I am, like the kool aid man just popped out of nowhere while I’m dying of thirst in the Sahara, it glistens with concentrated compassion for my suffering.

Hoek’s Death Metal Pizza.... RESCUE ME!

Crunching distortion, blistering bass amps, pulsating double bass pedal badassness fuck my eardrums with uvular octive lower bowel shaking vocals inciting magnetically clenched fists of joy that can only be described as YYYYEEEEEAAHHHHH!!!!!

Tickle my auditory cortex with high fretted solos and rapidity that renders the fingers invisible, pulverize like a mountain into swamp clay the disease that is pop songs in my head, activate my hope for music and obliterate the new American idol into the subject of Cannibal Corpse’s next album cover, remind me with Nile, Morbid Angel and Suffocation that substantive talent, creativity, and musicianship is indeed still appreciated, because I am not the only one in that establishment that breaths this shit.

YES! I would like 2 slices of good as fuck cheap as fuck and metal as fuck pizza.
NO! I do not want change for my 20.
NO! Cougar lady in line twice my age you cannot braid my hair.

Like an inmate that just got out of prison and is recouping from amazing sex with his wife but now must face the cruel world I peruse back on 6th street only to be bombarded by pretension, vanity, plasticity and shit flavored AXE body spray.
I don’t give a fuck if no one in the room can relate to this shit.
Give me death metal or give me death.

The Eye

I see what you’re sending me… the eye.
That gamma ray energy burst, impossible to fake, and dangerously sincere
That ocular caress, that affection by iris, you cuddle me with the windows on your head.
NEWS FLASH you’re in to me as logic tethers me preventing our decent.
Why should we do this?
Marriage and breakup are the only ways out, both of which scare the living shit out of me.
If we go into this, we risk abandoning our friends, because the void of loneliness will have been filled, We’ll not take as good care of our bodies because we’ll only have one person to impress, and we’ll turn our backs on the hobbies and skills that attracted us to eachother in the first place, because all we’ll want to do all day is hang out and fuck!
We’ll lose our individual identities as people forget that we are not in fact, Siamese fraternal twins and that we do in fact have separate names of ben, and Jennifer, and not benifer.
We’ll be that inseperable pair that everyone hates because we’d rather inspect eachother’s eyeballs than acknowledge that there is a planet of 6.5 billion people outside of our couple bubble.
I’ll hand you my emotional stability on a paper thin plate of china, balanced on a toothpick, held up on the top of a greased pinball. Please don’t hurt me.
I would hereby give you the power to destroy my self esteem, my inclination to seek happiness, and my will to ever love again.
Why the fuck should I get on this nonstop train to eminent disaster?
Because it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

They see it and say

A knee holds the steering wheel as this shwiggity brick weed refuses to de-seed itself. The reflections of headlights bounce off puddles in the street and rise through the trees as thumb and finger distribute only the best cocaine through the fluffed buds of this peach flavored blunt. As it is passed to the back seat, teamwork blows charges into fellow toker’s mouths and coats lungs with euphoria.

A coca farmer in Medellin Colombia stares down the barrel of the AK aimed at his throat by the paramilitary soldier. This worker of the land is a satellite dish of prayer, channeling every ounce of strength towards his maker because he was extorted to pay the wrong organization of guerrillas for protection, and he knows his bones will soon be decomposing on the rainforest floor, another unreported massacre of peasent coca farmers courtesy of the FARC. He sees the coke under your fingernail and cries, Fuck you.

A 6 year old in Ciudad Juarez sprays tears over the coffin of her father, an honest police officer, the body heavy with automatic drug cartel bullets, as focused and powerful as his desire to make his streets safe. Every day he walked out of that police station, he knew los narcotraficantes didn’t give a fuck how many fathers and mothers had to be popped off, how many graveyards would be filled, how many children would live in fear of crossfire, as long as they can get that brickweed across the border, it’s all good. That little girl sees the shwag in your blunt and screams, Fuck you.

A hippie with glaucoma in Humbolt county California breaths in the Cannabis pollen of his field while the shadow of a rainstorm rolls over the countryside to distribute nitrogen loaded raindrops to the moisture retaining soil of his super garden. Worms are tickling their roots, bees are bringing pleasant surprises back to the hive, and this farming gardener deepens the wrinkles of joy that decades of smiling have earned him. He sees the home-grown dank in your bowl and coughs, Thanks dude!

Ima tree

Get off your ass you lazy piece of shit.
All you see when breeze past me is a tree.
I look like I’m chillin, but I’m workin hard.
You see me, a cottonwood tree, serene, pleasant, in control of my own destiny, and at peace.
That’s what you think. You wanna know what’s really goin on?
Every single day, I’m like… fuck where’s the water?
Hey ceder why you gotta steal all my fuckin water?
Damn this soil sucks, get the salt away, I can’t take the salt!
Fuck this beetle eating through my skin!
Where’s the sun? Why’s this cum dumpster of building taking all my sun? Can a tree get some sun?
There’s a lot of shit goin on!
My leaves photosynthesize with light from our star even on a cloudy day.
My microrhizae covered roots are perpetually probing and penetrating the planet for water,75% of the earth and the earthling.
When that dihydrogen oxide doesn’t come out of the sky I die back only to cannibalize my roots back.
Only to fight back the attack of the insects and unfurl on the squirrel and the bird the most toxic bark I can muster,
I crack open the most perceptively impenetrable boulder, I vacuum all the good shit from the finest clay, while I nurture the worm and the microbe, the only ones that aren’t trying to kill me.
My branches radiate from my trunk with the monumental strength I’ve earned from year after year of building a pillar of solid lignin muscle grown from a seed that came out of a bird’s ass.
As the sun gives less love and the cold winds gives hate I drop my leafy engines of energy conversion only to cannibalize myself again, as I suck in the nutrients I’ve produced as they percolate through the soil.
All you see when you breeze past me is a tree. I look like I’m chillin, but I’m workin my ass off over here and you’re playing world of warcraft in your air-conditioned dungeon?! Come enjoy me!