The Faux Pas Press #72
25 December 2010
By: Jason Fresh
Jo,
the Native-American Wife,
it might be cruel of my sensibilities
not to notice,
not to sense
something at the very least.
But something would be your
pretentious attention
whore of a counterpart.
I am the rock star, sweetie.
You’re just the brand name,
white t-shirt and prep new shoes,
cheap shampoo showered in your hair
and cheap hairspray in your bangs.
You are nothing though.
And I have to confess.
You are certainly nothing,
a poetic cavern,
Nirvana.
You are The Call of the Wild
in an international, multi-colored mess.
You’re three colors wrist-banded
attached to a part of you bigger than your wrist.
You’re the three colors of my head:
gold hair,
black eyebrows,
and red face –
a three-layered humus dip from Trader Joe’s.
But I am full and I can eat your wristbands.
And I could, in time, devour you.
In time, in time, in time.
Wait.
Take one more breath.
Let’s give it all we have
and try to save what’s left.
I got
down on my knees
and now I’m begging for forgiveness
said a word I never say, “Please.”
Lost in the moonlight there are lives.
Gone in the madness there were signs.
Gone like tomorrow there is time.
And on the other side you were mine.
And on the other side you were mine.
Cry.
Cry like a bitch.
Open up the wounds that you can’t heal for me to see
and make me rich.
Play.
Play with my heart.
Bathe us in the sorrow belonging to the now
and break me apart.
Lost in the moonlight there are lives.
Gone in the madness there were signs.
Gone like tomorrow there is time.
And on the other side you were mine.
And on the other side you were mine.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #71
The Faux Pas Press #71
24 December 2010
By Jason Fresh
To Taormina Sicilian Cuisine
What are the spirits of your dead saying to you? Were they accused of treachery? Probably – probably asking for another glass of capital gains tax because their children’s children forgot what it was like to be a child and have no one to speak for you. There was no gesture of good will toward me and mine as I made a troublesome entrance at your swanky Waikiki establishment. Burning plastic in a trashcan outside was but a miniscule omen of what is to come. No surfer/waiter/ pretty boy will have your back in the end. No apology for disdainful treatment will give absolution to your disgusting collective mirroring each other in strokes of vanity. A simple chair for a child would have been enough, a simple high-chair for my firstborn.
Let me tell you because you have not yet learned. Every flick of guile, cigarette-fumed conversation, every lofty gesture of championship that arouses you; these are nothing but a flash in the pan for your company because you have already lost. All things live and die. The end is sadly and swiftly coming for your place; this because of your own stupidity and greed. All of you, no matter what your origin or nationality will live to see shame brought upon you. All of this because your own actions. And I will live to see the Great and Abominable Day of your pretty little joint. Purchase some high chairs and encourage your employees to offer them and The Darkness, blessed be his name, the name of Parley Angerbliss, might have mercy. You forgot your customer on the record-breaking night, the holy night, the high beginning of a swift end for Taormina Sicilian Cuisine. Those you have mistreated, both customer and employee alike, shall see the black day of reckoning. The curse that I leave upon your establishment can not be revoked; it can’t be withdrawn except for your sincere and heartfelt change.
You must change or be prepared for frogs to fall from the sky upon you, for your waters to be filled with blood, and the Ghost of Christmas Past to take a dinosaur-size shit on your establishment. You’d get sued if you didn’t offer seating for the disabled – not so much luck for infants though. “Well, we try to preserve a fine-dining ambience,” is your weak excuse. “This guy is just fucking crazy talking about curses and shit.”
Know this. Florence, Tokyo, La Rotta del Vino Slow Food Contest, none of these trophies will amount to anything more than a sad demise. Within one year’s time you will be out of business. The doors will be closed. No lawsuit here, complaining to the manager, no comp food, no future visits, no humorous reconciliations. This has been a curse upon you and all who enter your establishment. Death is upon your efforts - all this for your disdain against mine. In the name of Enoch, Leviathan, and Abaddon.
24 December 2010
By Jason Fresh
To Taormina Sicilian Cuisine
What are the spirits of your dead saying to you? Were they accused of treachery? Probably – probably asking for another glass of capital gains tax because their children’s children forgot what it was like to be a child and have no one to speak for you. There was no gesture of good will toward me and mine as I made a troublesome entrance at your swanky Waikiki establishment. Burning plastic in a trashcan outside was but a miniscule omen of what is to come. No surfer/waiter/ pretty boy will have your back in the end. No apology for disdainful treatment will give absolution to your disgusting collective mirroring each other in strokes of vanity. A simple chair for a child would have been enough, a simple high-chair for my firstborn.
Let me tell you because you have not yet learned. Every flick of guile, cigarette-fumed conversation, every lofty gesture of championship that arouses you; these are nothing but a flash in the pan for your company because you have already lost. All things live and die. The end is sadly and swiftly coming for your place; this because of your own stupidity and greed. All of you, no matter what your origin or nationality will live to see shame brought upon you. All of this because your own actions. And I will live to see the Great and Abominable Day of your pretty little joint. Purchase some high chairs and encourage your employees to offer them and The Darkness, blessed be his name, the name of Parley Angerbliss, might have mercy. You forgot your customer on the record-breaking night, the holy night, the high beginning of a swift end for Taormina Sicilian Cuisine. Those you have mistreated, both customer and employee alike, shall see the black day of reckoning. The curse that I leave upon your establishment can not be revoked; it can’t be withdrawn except for your sincere and heartfelt change.
You must change or be prepared for frogs to fall from the sky upon you, for your waters to be filled with blood, and the Ghost of Christmas Past to take a dinosaur-size shit on your establishment. You’d get sued if you didn’t offer seating for the disabled – not so much luck for infants though. “Well, we try to preserve a fine-dining ambience,” is your weak excuse. “This guy is just fucking crazy talking about curses and shit.”
Know this. Florence, Tokyo, La Rotta del Vino Slow Food Contest, none of these trophies will amount to anything more than a sad demise. Within one year’s time you will be out of business. The doors will be closed. No lawsuit here, complaining to the manager, no comp food, no future visits, no humorous reconciliations. This has been a curse upon you and all who enter your establishment. Death is upon your efforts - all this for your disdain against mine. In the name of Enoch, Leviathan, and Abaddon.
Monday, November 22, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #70
The Faux Pas Press #70
By Jason Fresh
22 November 2010
My world is clear, cleared of weirdness by embracing it. My word is shear, sheared like haircut goodness fucking it. There’s always more beneath the surface though. I have become invisible. My parking spot is always open, cleared like haircut goodness. Clearing the house of spirits foreign to me is easy. Clearing the spirits that I know is a life-long process, a process worth all the hard work I’ve put into it.
You can’t leave any vestibule to the related world a ghost possesses. No picture. No Ouija. No portal. Yes. When you decide to shut them out, it is permanent. (But I guess nothing is really permanent.)
Now, after the terrorists have been exiled from your consciousness, you free to think and breathe as you must. You’re free to find a nice chair and read Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself. Yes, read that piece and then try to pretend you’re not gay. You won’t be able to unless you banish Whitman for the Universe too. Banishing is not easy but it is worth it. (Even if you do question your sexuality I wouldn’t banish Whitman. He is a fine companion on the road to perdition.)
By Jason Fresh
22 November 2010
My world is clear, cleared of weirdness by embracing it. My word is shear, sheared like haircut goodness fucking it. There’s always more beneath the surface though. I have become invisible. My parking spot is always open, cleared like haircut goodness. Clearing the house of spirits foreign to me is easy. Clearing the spirits that I know is a life-long process, a process worth all the hard work I’ve put into it.
You can’t leave any vestibule to the related world a ghost possesses. No picture. No Ouija. No portal. Yes. When you decide to shut them out, it is permanent. (But I guess nothing is really permanent.)
Now, after the terrorists have been exiled from your consciousness, you free to think and breathe as you must. You’re free to find a nice chair and read Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself. Yes, read that piece and then try to pretend you’re not gay. You won’t be able to unless you banish Whitman for the Universe too. Banishing is not easy but it is worth it. (Even if you do question your sexuality I wouldn’t banish Whitman. He is a fine companion on the road to perdition.)
Friday, November 19, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #69
The Faux Pas Press #69
19 November 2010
By Jason Fresh
Sucker
They won’t ever tell you if you’re a sucker,
won’t tell you if she is banging another.
But, for sure, above all else,
they will call you out when you need to be preserved,
call you out before dinner is served.
They’ll say some ignominious shit, brother.
“Where have you been, brother?
And why have you not called?
Have you seen your Uncle?
He straight went bald.”
“No other person on this planet will say for you
what you can say for yourself,”
is the predictable response that I give.
But I’m in limbo between past and nowhere.
So, it’s just limbo really.
19 November 2010
By Jason Fresh
Sucker
They won’t ever tell you if you’re a sucker,
won’t tell you if she is banging another.
But, for sure, above all else,
they will call you out when you need to be preserved,
call you out before dinner is served.
They’ll say some ignominious shit, brother.
“Where have you been, brother?
And why have you not called?
Have you seen your Uncle?
He straight went bald.”
“No other person on this planet will say for you
what you can say for yourself,”
is the predictable response that I give.
But I’m in limbo between past and nowhere.
So, it’s just limbo really.
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #68
As I Walk Into the Night
I didn’t think I would be so scared.
I didn’t think I would be so petrified.
I didn’t think I’d feel the hurt and all the damage of my past
when I threw it all away.
I didn’t think you would remorse.
I didn’t think you would feel victimized.
I didn’t think you’d use the scars built up
for all those painful years and throw them in my face.
No, you ain’t got to cry.
I’ve got my feet lined up on my own coffin
so forget me when I die.
No, I stepped down from your fight
and I’m all alone on my long day’s journey
as I walk into the night.
I never thought I could feel so new.
I never thought I could feel justified.
I never thought that I could breathe and feel
the way that I do now when I said
what I had to say.
I never thought I would be this clean.
I never thought I could feel dignified.
I never thought that I could burn a
narrative and write with my own pen
now the anger’s gone away.
No, you ain’t got to cry.
I’ve got my feet lined up in my own coffin
so forget me when I die.
No, I stepped down from your fight
and I’m all alone on my long day’s journey
as I walk into the night.
No, you ain’t got to cry.
I’ve got my feet lined up in my own coffin
so forget me when I die.
No, I stepped down from your fight
and I’m all alone on my long day’s journey
as I walk into the night.
I didn’t think I would be so scared.
I didn’t think I would be so petrified.
I didn’t think I’d feel the hurt and all the damage of my past
when I threw it all away.
I didn’t think you would remorse.
I didn’t think you would feel victimized.
I didn’t think you’d use the scars built up
for all those painful years and throw them in my face.
No, you ain’t got to cry.
I’ve got my feet lined up on my own coffin
so forget me when I die.
No, I stepped down from your fight
and I’m all alone on my long day’s journey
as I walk into the night.
I never thought I could feel so new.
I never thought I could feel justified.
I never thought that I could breathe and feel
the way that I do now when I said
what I had to say.
I never thought I would be this clean.
I never thought I could feel dignified.
I never thought that I could burn a
narrative and write with my own pen
now the anger’s gone away.
No, you ain’t got to cry.
I’ve got my feet lined up in my own coffin
so forget me when I die.
No, I stepped down from your fight
and I’m all alone on my long day’s journey
as I walk into the night.
No, you ain’t got to cry.
I’ve got my feet lined up in my own coffin
so forget me when I die.
No, I stepped down from your fight
and I’m all alone on my long day’s journey
as I walk into the night.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #67
The Faux Pas Press #67
23 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Break These Chains
Always searching for what I can hold,
walking the streets of the city to fit some mold,
dressing up nice and wearing the clothes of the norm,
I begin to dance and see I don’t that form.
I want to run.
I want to feel.
I want to break these chains and make it real.
I won’t delay or carry a load.
I’d rather walk a dirty road.
I’m in the Fold in Fabric of Night.
How could I be wrong when I feel so right?
Come on girl and grab my hand.
I’ll take you to the Promised Land.
Oh, baby, let’s break these chains,
Break these chains.
Leave a job building cities for the Man.
Leave a death plot he’s spun with a master plan.
Put on your self and your giddy dancing shoes.
Put on your night dress, Honey.
Let’s go drink some booze.
I want to run.
I want to feel.
I want to break these chains and make it real.
I won’t delay or carry a load.
I’d rather walk a dirty road.
I’m in the Fold in Fabric of Night.
How could I be wrong when I feel so right?
Come on girl and grab my hand.
I’ll take you to the Promised Land.
Oh, baby, let’s break these chains,
Break these chains.
I want to run.
I want to feel.
I want to break these chains and make it real.
I won’t delay or carry a load.
I’d rather walk a dirty road.
I’m in the Fold in Fabric of Night.
How could I be wrong when I feel so right?
Come on girl and grab my hand.
I’ll take you to the Promised Land.
Oh, baby, let’s break these chains,
Break these chains.
23 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Break These Chains
Always searching for what I can hold,
walking the streets of the city to fit some mold,
dressing up nice and wearing the clothes of the norm,
I begin to dance and see I don’t that form.
I want to run.
I want to feel.
I want to break these chains and make it real.
I won’t delay or carry a load.
I’d rather walk a dirty road.
I’m in the Fold in Fabric of Night.
How could I be wrong when I feel so right?
Come on girl and grab my hand.
I’ll take you to the Promised Land.
Oh, baby, let’s break these chains,
Break these chains.
Leave a job building cities for the Man.
Leave a death plot he’s spun with a master plan.
Put on your self and your giddy dancing shoes.
Put on your night dress, Honey.
Let’s go drink some booze.
I want to run.
I want to feel.
I want to break these chains and make it real.
I won’t delay or carry a load.
I’d rather walk a dirty road.
I’m in the Fold in Fabric of Night.
How could I be wrong when I feel so right?
Come on girl and grab my hand.
I’ll take you to the Promised Land.
Oh, baby, let’s break these chains,
Break these chains.
I want to run.
I want to feel.
I want to break these chains and make it real.
I won’t delay or carry a load.
I’d rather walk a dirty road.
I’m in the Fold in Fabric of Night.
How could I be wrong when I feel so right?
Come on girl and grab my hand.
I’ll take you to the Promised Land.
Oh, baby, let’s break these chains,
Break these chains.
The Faux Pas Press #66
The Faux Pas Press #66
22 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Sometimes I feel as if a great vagina were orbiting planet Earth, and by ‘planet Earth’ I mean my whole presence, my very egotistical essence. In that giant vagina is a party of women. These are probably all the women I’ve ever slain with Wolfgang, my crooked, girthy, capicola sausage. This giant vagina, I’m sure, has one main purpose. This purpose is not instantaneous or reactionary like my wife’s aim in trying to figure out the Netflix account password. No. I’m not quite certain yet as to what this purpose means. No, I don’t know what it is exactly. But I’m certain that there is one – there is a purpose to this great vagina. Perhaps, the purpose is suck, store, and label for consumption the parts of Jason Fresh that are most valuable. Perhaps, these parts will be consumed during a long winter while said women listen to Bon Iver’s For Emma. You see, the vagina has historically been compared to a lotus flower – mostly by an uber-human yoga teacher that I fanaticize. But I know that it is more like a magnetized wormhole that transports the dreams of my childhood to be consumed by the women at the party. The probably have some nerds up there. Yep, probably have a wall-safe guarded by a librarian from Monterey that I just banged. And inside this giant vagina in the sky, April from Richardson, Texas bathes herself in vagina fluid – what I might call the ‘creamy yogurts’. I could be called ‘my’ creamy yogurt because it comes from chics I believed to have conquered. Surely, they conquered me. I will kiss my wife tonight with gratitude.
22 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Sometimes I feel as if a great vagina were orbiting planet Earth, and by ‘planet Earth’ I mean my whole presence, my very egotistical essence. In that giant vagina is a party of women. These are probably all the women I’ve ever slain with Wolfgang, my crooked, girthy, capicola sausage. This giant vagina, I’m sure, has one main purpose. This purpose is not instantaneous or reactionary like my wife’s aim in trying to figure out the Netflix account password. No. I’m not quite certain yet as to what this purpose means. No, I don’t know what it is exactly. But I’m certain that there is one – there is a purpose to this great vagina. Perhaps, the purpose is suck, store, and label for consumption the parts of Jason Fresh that are most valuable. Perhaps, these parts will be consumed during a long winter while said women listen to Bon Iver’s For Emma. You see, the vagina has historically been compared to a lotus flower – mostly by an uber-human yoga teacher that I fanaticize. But I know that it is more like a magnetized wormhole that transports the dreams of my childhood to be consumed by the women at the party. The probably have some nerds up there. Yep, probably have a wall-safe guarded by a librarian from Monterey that I just banged. And inside this giant vagina in the sky, April from Richardson, Texas bathes herself in vagina fluid – what I might call the ‘creamy yogurts’. I could be called ‘my’ creamy yogurt because it comes from chics I believed to have conquered. Surely, they conquered me. I will kiss my wife tonight with gratitude.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #65
The Faux Pas Press #65
21 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Atman is called by different names, but have you found out for yourself that you actually have a soul? “There is permanence,” you say, “families can be together forever.” As long as you rationalize your fear of death, creating innumerable beliefs about death, belief that says you will live forever. You seek pleasure to prolong it – demanding pleasure. Well, you will also get pain. What about joy? Would you rather cling to the known rather than the unknown - the fame, the gods you worship, the role in society, the marriage, the structure. There must be dying to yesterday. “I’m not afraid of dying,” is said when lips and tongue quiver with love of pleasure, the insanity ingrained in his conditioning which is not separate from the piety of his parents. You are bitter and you cherish things. But you must die to them, be completely empty to all the cherished. There is no security in relationships. Each one of us is seeking. “Reincarnation is, for sure, better than any idea of salvation. I’m a Buddhist so I don’t need religion. It isn’t, it isn’t a religion and it doesn’t give me wealth. You’ve got to know poverty.” How cherished the position in society, the fashionable religion when all others are out of fashion. In fashion, out of fashion! What about living with delight and enchantment? Doing this requires that you take a shit on possession. You can never really possess what you are afraid of. And, I’m saying, that you’ve got to possess yourself.
21 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Atman is called by different names, but have you found out for yourself that you actually have a soul? “There is permanence,” you say, “families can be together forever.” As long as you rationalize your fear of death, creating innumerable beliefs about death, belief that says you will live forever. You seek pleasure to prolong it – demanding pleasure. Well, you will also get pain. What about joy? Would you rather cling to the known rather than the unknown - the fame, the gods you worship, the role in society, the marriage, the structure. There must be dying to yesterday. “I’m not afraid of dying,” is said when lips and tongue quiver with love of pleasure, the insanity ingrained in his conditioning which is not separate from the piety of his parents. You are bitter and you cherish things. But you must die to them, be completely empty to all the cherished. There is no security in relationships. Each one of us is seeking. “Reincarnation is, for sure, better than any idea of salvation. I’m a Buddhist so I don’t need religion. It isn’t, it isn’t a religion and it doesn’t give me wealth. You’ve got to know poverty.” How cherished the position in society, the fashionable religion when all others are out of fashion. In fashion, out of fashion! What about living with delight and enchantment? Doing this requires that you take a shit on possession. You can never really possess what you are afraid of. And, I’m saying, that you’ve got to possess yourself.
The Faux Pas Press #64
The Faux Pas Press #64
By Jason Fresh
20 October 2010
I describe the role and ideal. But the distortion I want, talking about freedom all the while, is sculpted by a formula of beauty that is ideal. But there is an ideal and this ideal that you help to sculpt is no freedom, a reaction, not a freedom at all. You can be free from dogma but that has its own reaction – it may not be fashionable anymore and that has its own ideal, nationality. So isolated!! Are you living in some dreamy ivory tower of mattering, of a detailed past, lofty and rich? Well, let me tell you this is not a healthy path into solitude at all. It is still conditioned by your ideal. “I just want to be alone with my books!” Well, fuck you, friend. And when I say ‘fuck you’ I’m also fucking myself - I’ll have you know. There is no life or ideal greater than the ideal you are currently living. And you are not the ideal. How do you like that?
Living with yourself, alone, as you actually are, is freedom. Get used to your own anxiety, your own fears, your worry that you are worthless, your husband, your wife, jealousy. But you must care for all of these things. Do not condemn it. Love it. Care for it. You just care about observing the thing that you really are. You don’t have affection. And you are not good. Can you live with that without getting depressed or suicidal? “I am happy,” there he is, living in a memory of something that is gone.
By Jason Fresh
20 October 2010
I describe the role and ideal. But the distortion I want, talking about freedom all the while, is sculpted by a formula of beauty that is ideal. But there is an ideal and this ideal that you help to sculpt is no freedom, a reaction, not a freedom at all. You can be free from dogma but that has its own reaction – it may not be fashionable anymore and that has its own ideal, nationality. So isolated!! Are you living in some dreamy ivory tower of mattering, of a detailed past, lofty and rich? Well, let me tell you this is not a healthy path into solitude at all. It is still conditioned by your ideal. “I just want to be alone with my books!” Well, fuck you, friend. And when I say ‘fuck you’ I’m also fucking myself - I’ll have you know. There is no life or ideal greater than the ideal you are currently living. And you are not the ideal. How do you like that?
Living with yourself, alone, as you actually are, is freedom. Get used to your own anxiety, your own fears, your worry that you are worthless, your husband, your wife, jealousy. But you must care for all of these things. Do not condemn it. Love it. Care for it. You just care about observing the thing that you really are. You don’t have affection. And you are not good. Can you live with that without getting depressed or suicidal? “I am happy,” there he is, living in a memory of something that is gone.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #63
The Faux Pas Press #63
19 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Parley Angerbliss: Churches can brutally oppress the tribal secret wisdom but are led by those who understand it. They steal mythology just as the weasel bastard inferior steals the attention away from productive aims, a teenage latent leach talks and talks to hear an echo of purpose. The secret wisdom, on the periphery of Platonism as respectable as Christian dogma in our plane of existence, is not acknowledged by the West openly. My occult fathers had to stay quiet about education. Contrarily, the early Islamic predecessors of this occult knowledge openly acknowledged the need for education. Spirituality does not require the veneration of the cross nor the current taxation to the extension of it – the state. There will be no new inquisition. There will be enlightenment, a denial of the gentle Jesus, and channeling of a truly righteous path. Islam has now abandoned the secret wisdom. We must now take the mark of Thomas Aquinas.
Bernard de Fontaine: Are you speaking of this Leviathan, the entirety of the Self?
Parley Angerbliss: Bernard, I’m talking about the exemption from taxation. It is as simple as that. What about the Nazarenes? The holy order of the Nazarenes was led by a married man, yes, named Jesus. Churches now twist the concept of Jesus and sell salvation with no taxation. The Nazarenes, a secret society in its own right, paid as many taxes to the Caesar as anyone else. He who drinks from the mouth of Jesus will become him. That is the spiritual teaching that I have to offer. And I shouldn’t be taxed either.
Bernard de Fontaine: You shouldn’t be taxed. The government isn’t managing your money well.
Parley Angerbliss: That is not the point. Have you forgotten your commitment to spiritual practices? Yes, I think you have. So, I will keep sending spells against the enemies of righteousness.
19 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Parley Angerbliss: Churches can brutally oppress the tribal secret wisdom but are led by those who understand it. They steal mythology just as the weasel bastard inferior steals the attention away from productive aims, a teenage latent leach talks and talks to hear an echo of purpose. The secret wisdom, on the periphery of Platonism as respectable as Christian dogma in our plane of existence, is not acknowledged by the West openly. My occult fathers had to stay quiet about education. Contrarily, the early Islamic predecessors of this occult knowledge openly acknowledged the need for education. Spirituality does not require the veneration of the cross nor the current taxation to the extension of it – the state. There will be no new inquisition. There will be enlightenment, a denial of the gentle Jesus, and channeling of a truly righteous path. Islam has now abandoned the secret wisdom. We must now take the mark of Thomas Aquinas.
Bernard de Fontaine: Are you speaking of this Leviathan, the entirety of the Self?
Parley Angerbliss: Bernard, I’m talking about the exemption from taxation. It is as simple as that. What about the Nazarenes? The holy order of the Nazarenes was led by a married man, yes, named Jesus. Churches now twist the concept of Jesus and sell salvation with no taxation. The Nazarenes, a secret society in its own right, paid as many taxes to the Caesar as anyone else. He who drinks from the mouth of Jesus will become him. That is the spiritual teaching that I have to offer. And I shouldn’t be taxed either.
Bernard de Fontaine: You shouldn’t be taxed. The government isn’t managing your money well.
Parley Angerbliss: That is not the point. Have you forgotten your commitment to spiritual practices? Yes, I think you have. So, I will keep sending spells against the enemies of righteousness.
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #62
The Faux Pas Press #62
18 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
The light is all around my proprietary thrown, and I’ve laid claim to all around me. An obese woman can’t walk past me in the grocery store without encountering the electromagnetic wave of disdain. She can’t live her life without my feelings demanding an experience with her. “Don’t you see I love greater?” And she just moves right through the black matter – brave, like an Athena, white horse-riding bad bitch. Now, I am taught and will, forevermore, be taught by those I’ve laid claim to, my lovers especially. When the players in my perpetual tragicomedy keep showing up even when I am eternally ungrateful to them. This song, this one fucking song is such a clear example of my ingratitude. Bon Iver’s Skinny Love speaks to me. Is it possible that the artist tapped into dimensional magnetic charge and stole my own personal experience for this one? I’m pretty sure I’ve said these words. I am the young thieve of light years declaring my curses to parent, friend, enemy, brother, and even musician. He is me saying stuff like, “Be patient, be balanced, and love me like you’re supposed. “ You can’t walk through the intersecting planes without me saying something about your ass. But ‘I am my mother on the wall’, I am you and you are me. It is truth. “Only love is all maroon.” So thanks.
18 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
The light is all around my proprietary thrown, and I’ve laid claim to all around me. An obese woman can’t walk past me in the grocery store without encountering the electromagnetic wave of disdain. She can’t live her life without my feelings demanding an experience with her. “Don’t you see I love greater?” And she just moves right through the black matter – brave, like an Athena, white horse-riding bad bitch. Now, I am taught and will, forevermore, be taught by those I’ve laid claim to, my lovers especially. When the players in my perpetual tragicomedy keep showing up even when I am eternally ungrateful to them. This song, this one fucking song is such a clear example of my ingratitude. Bon Iver’s Skinny Love speaks to me. Is it possible that the artist tapped into dimensional magnetic charge and stole my own personal experience for this one? I’m pretty sure I’ve said these words. I am the young thieve of light years declaring my curses to parent, friend, enemy, brother, and even musician. He is me saying stuff like, “Be patient, be balanced, and love me like you’re supposed. “ You can’t walk through the intersecting planes without me saying something about your ass. But ‘I am my mother on the wall’, I am you and you are me. It is truth. “Only love is all maroon.” So thanks.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #61
The Faux Pas Press #61
17 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
“Are you tolerant to me? Is what I believe reasonable? Does it support reason? My religion is good. My religion is great on Sunday. On Monday, I mean, like, when we’re talking about football and restaurants around the water cooler, your religion is cool too. What are you? Muslim? That’s cool? Christian? Hey, that’s cool too. Every religion has its place. We’ve got to be tolerant toward other people’s religions, right? ‘I may not agree with what you say but I will defend with my life your right to say it,’ right, Ahmed? I mean, after all, you’re a Muslim and you’ll support me when Allah tells you to do ‘his will’, right? I mean, Brother Steven, you’ll still support my rights to individual sovereignty when God tells you to do ‘his will’, right? What if God tells you to violate my will? What are you going to do when your leaders tell you to legislate my behavior? You’re ideas are just as valid as mine – hey, even if they are detrimental to the survival of order and reason in the nation state. Even if God speaks to me and tells me to draft a proposition to infringe upon the private rights of its citizens? Hey, we’re egalitarian. We’re tolerant, right? Hey, I’ll see you at the sales meeting. Good talk. And, umm, God bless or Allah bless, right? Hey, ha-ha.”
You know, just because you declare a ‘truth’ loudly doesn’t mean it is objective reason speaking. It is more than likely the opposite. Do we have to declare someone within their ‘right’ when they are completely and utterly full of nonsense? Tolerance, when the tides of psychic forces collide, is a rotten joke that we play on ourselves. You can be within your 'right' and also be completely and utterly full of shit.
17 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
“Are you tolerant to me? Is what I believe reasonable? Does it support reason? My religion is good. My religion is great on Sunday. On Monday, I mean, like, when we’re talking about football and restaurants around the water cooler, your religion is cool too. What are you? Muslim? That’s cool? Christian? Hey, that’s cool too. Every religion has its place. We’ve got to be tolerant toward other people’s religions, right? ‘I may not agree with what you say but I will defend with my life your right to say it,’ right, Ahmed? I mean, after all, you’re a Muslim and you’ll support me when Allah tells you to do ‘his will’, right? I mean, Brother Steven, you’ll still support my rights to individual sovereignty when God tells you to do ‘his will’, right? What if God tells you to violate my will? What are you going to do when your leaders tell you to legislate my behavior? You’re ideas are just as valid as mine – hey, even if they are detrimental to the survival of order and reason in the nation state. Even if God speaks to me and tells me to draft a proposition to infringe upon the private rights of its citizens? Hey, we’re egalitarian. We’re tolerant, right? Hey, I’ll see you at the sales meeting. Good talk. And, umm, God bless or Allah bless, right? Hey, ha-ha.”
You know, just because you declare a ‘truth’ loudly doesn’t mean it is objective reason speaking. It is more than likely the opposite. Do we have to declare someone within their ‘right’ when they are completely and utterly full of nonsense? Tolerance, when the tides of psychic forces collide, is a rotten joke that we play on ourselves. You can be within your 'right' and also be completely and utterly full of shit.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #60
The Faux Pas Press #60
16 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Thank you for waiting on me. I am here yet again to discuss the intricacies of nothing and dive into black energy, the substance that can not only cleanse my soul but destroy it – debilitating the words of my enemies and charging The Faux Pas Press with due penance. Only the penitent can pass through these walls. Copernicus, Ptolemy, and Galileo sit with the American Muse. The stars do not collide here because space is infinite, the perfect number dispersing them evenly throughout spacetime, allowing them to draw towards an indefinite center. In infinitely skewed planes, no node can be considered the center. As such, every point can be considered the center. That is the concept of The Apostate Hymns and The Fold in the Fabric of Night, that concept that issues new credos to existing forms and steals light away with black energy, the substance of the demon Parley Angerbliss.
Furthermore, therein lies the charge of my artistic voice and shall hereby prove worthy of history. But what history is there when all points in an expanding universe can be considered the center. Therein lays the problem of infinity, a problem that Parley Angerbliss understood and thereby created The Elysium Potion. All lines of sight lead to some point. The point is a quantum bit. The point is a star primed for its own collapse. The point is me. The point is you. And you can plausibly be the center of the Universe. You are not, however, a finite form in past or present. Just as the Universe changes so will you change. And your energy comes here.
16 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Thank you for waiting on me. I am here yet again to discuss the intricacies of nothing and dive into black energy, the substance that can not only cleanse my soul but destroy it – debilitating the words of my enemies and charging The Faux Pas Press with due penance. Only the penitent can pass through these walls. Copernicus, Ptolemy, and Galileo sit with the American Muse. The stars do not collide here because space is infinite, the perfect number dispersing them evenly throughout spacetime, allowing them to draw towards an indefinite center. In infinitely skewed planes, no node can be considered the center. As such, every point can be considered the center. That is the concept of The Apostate Hymns and The Fold in the Fabric of Night, that concept that issues new credos to existing forms and steals light away with black energy, the substance of the demon Parley Angerbliss.
Furthermore, therein lies the charge of my artistic voice and shall hereby prove worthy of history. But what history is there when all points in an expanding universe can be considered the center. Therein lays the problem of infinity, a problem that Parley Angerbliss understood and thereby created The Elysium Potion. All lines of sight lead to some point. The point is a quantum bit. The point is a star primed for its own collapse. The point is me. The point is you. And you can plausibly be the center of the Universe. You are not, however, a finite form in past or present. Just as the Universe changes so will you change. And your energy comes here.
Friday, October 15, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #59
The Faux Pas Press #59
15 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
How long is the measuring stick, this American measuring stick of dreams? How long will they sell it back to me even though I went to buy a plastic ruler from the grocery store? It measures just fine. I can measure anything from my penis to my capacity to learn languages. It is limited. All tools have their limitations just as the aforementioned traits have their limits. But as long as we, the enlightened collective, the lovers and haters of constitutional representative republics, as long as we keep buying rulers, I might as well buy the most affordable one, probably made in China. No - most definitely made in China. If I measure my life by the metric system at least the numbers are inherently higher – and my IQ lower because I’m being compared to Asians who are better at math. (Penis size will remain comparatively the same, okay. We know that for sure.) I am good at math but, like, inches and feet and shit. The Chinaman is a sneaky sonofabitch though. Is it possible that he fucked around with those little plastic rulers before a woman with a graduate degree boxed them up? I’m sure mine is legit.
The woman who sold it to me, the Polynesian kind (not the ruler – the woman), working as a Walmart cashier without a degree, smirking slightly as I scooted past magazine covers with bully-victim suicides, seemed curious as she scanned, flipped, and handled it. She winked at me as if she’d experienced some intimate part of the Self.
“No, the ruler is Chinese. I’m an American.”
“Are you sure?”
“We’ll I measure in inches, measure whatever I can. I’m going to be doing a lot of measuring.”
“You measuring tonight?”
“How do you measure tonight? I’m married actually if that's what you're refering too.”
“You sure? How do you measure that?”
“I’m not sure about the answer to either question.”
Measure, measure, measure the height of your grasp then reach one hundred times higher.
15 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
How long is the measuring stick, this American measuring stick of dreams? How long will they sell it back to me even though I went to buy a plastic ruler from the grocery store? It measures just fine. I can measure anything from my penis to my capacity to learn languages. It is limited. All tools have their limitations just as the aforementioned traits have their limits. But as long as we, the enlightened collective, the lovers and haters of constitutional representative republics, as long as we keep buying rulers, I might as well buy the most affordable one, probably made in China. No - most definitely made in China. If I measure my life by the metric system at least the numbers are inherently higher – and my IQ lower because I’m being compared to Asians who are better at math. (Penis size will remain comparatively the same, okay. We know that for sure.) I am good at math but, like, inches and feet and shit. The Chinaman is a sneaky sonofabitch though. Is it possible that he fucked around with those little plastic rulers before a woman with a graduate degree boxed them up? I’m sure mine is legit.
The woman who sold it to me, the Polynesian kind (not the ruler – the woman), working as a Walmart cashier without a degree, smirking slightly as I scooted past magazine covers with bully-victim suicides, seemed curious as she scanned, flipped, and handled it. She winked at me as if she’d experienced some intimate part of the Self.
“No, the ruler is Chinese. I’m an American.”
“Are you sure?”
“We’ll I measure in inches, measure whatever I can. I’m going to be doing a lot of measuring.”
“You measuring tonight?”
“How do you measure tonight? I’m married actually if that's what you're refering too.”
“You sure? How do you measure that?”
“I’m not sure about the answer to either question.”
Measure, measure, measure the height of your grasp then reach one hundred times higher.
The Faux Pas Press #58
The Faux Pas Press #58
14 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Hours spent watching television.
The ON switch flipped within the major appliances - the factory of my life producing, right now and at every point in spacetime, the right to exist and express freely, the right to wage war. So, I spit on the cement in your hometown because you’re not connected enough to stop me. I run faster than I’ve ever ran before. But what does that mean? That I get to arrive nowhere quicker? I jerk the chain of accomplishment only to discover that chain is connected to a toilet. I wear short running shorts because I know it makes you uncomfortable. How crazy must you be to hand your emotional comfort to a guy like me?
How insignificant to continue struggling toward a meaningless aim. You jerk off to one of those TEXT commercials with the busty females who moonlight at the gentleman’s club. That’s not my fault that. Nope, it is not my fault that you stare at my crotch. No, not my damn fault at all. If I put a part in my hair and own a gift card exchange business when I’m 60, shoot me, shoot me with a revolver stolen form my grandmother’s purse. If I survive, send me to work at a furniture store while living at the VA Hospital. If you suffer from inflammatory bowel disease after taking the medication ACUTANE – go fuck yourself. I don’t even know what inflammatory bowel disease is. If I was affected how would I know? I did take ACUTANE. I will still probably go fuck myself – even if I don’t have inflammatory bowel disease.
14 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
Hours spent watching television.
The ON switch flipped within the major appliances - the factory of my life producing, right now and at every point in spacetime, the right to exist and express freely, the right to wage war. So, I spit on the cement in your hometown because you’re not connected enough to stop me. I run faster than I’ve ever ran before. But what does that mean? That I get to arrive nowhere quicker? I jerk the chain of accomplishment only to discover that chain is connected to a toilet. I wear short running shorts because I know it makes you uncomfortable. How crazy must you be to hand your emotional comfort to a guy like me?
How insignificant to continue struggling toward a meaningless aim. You jerk off to one of those TEXT commercials with the busty females who moonlight at the gentleman’s club. That’s not my fault that. Nope, it is not my fault that you stare at my crotch. No, not my damn fault at all. If I put a part in my hair and own a gift card exchange business when I’m 60, shoot me, shoot me with a revolver stolen form my grandmother’s purse. If I survive, send me to work at a furniture store while living at the VA Hospital. If you suffer from inflammatory bowel disease after taking the medication ACUTANE – go fuck yourself. I don’t even know what inflammatory bowel disease is. If I was affected how would I know? I did take ACUTANE. I will still probably go fuck myself – even if I don’t have inflammatory bowel disease.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #57
The Faux Pas Press #58
By Jason Fresh
13 October 2010
What, upon this dark, is worth the neighbor’s sanity if mine can not be acknowledged and cherished by the state? Did we make a Jesus out of subsidized loans? And who will make the new one when that Jesus dies? But, but, but…. This ends up being a story where the parents apologize to their children for doing the mambo in a generation of rubber. This ends up being a story where I must choose will and even kill my parents’ ideology, keeping, even rescuing, the mythology that they turned into organized religion. I’m confused because what I don’t get now manifests later. And my parents keep praying for the good to be greater and work the whole nation state into irrevocable havoc. What? How is it that going down for everyone else? Couldn’t I just stop, completely stop focusing on the elements that I dislike, pray (use the energy of my mind, heart, and soul), and banish lack forever from my life? Couldn’t I do that? So, solitude has evolved into a peace, a time everyday to write the evolving journal, The Faux Pas Press, let the world in, and be still. In a moment I travel to the base of Mexican temples, in a moment I see how all pressure is gone, in a moment I can travel the distance of human history. How many revolutions of the Earth? How long before Christians and Jews start burning Muslims on American soil? Tolerance is your joke that I’m smoking, your lie I’ve been stoking. I will live to see our economic problems resolved – even if we lose a few battles. I owe, for one of many, owe nothing to the children of Social Security, owe nothing to the parents of my high school classmates.
By Jason Fresh
13 October 2010
What, upon this dark, is worth the neighbor’s sanity if mine can not be acknowledged and cherished by the state? Did we make a Jesus out of subsidized loans? And who will make the new one when that Jesus dies? But, but, but…. This ends up being a story where the parents apologize to their children for doing the mambo in a generation of rubber. This ends up being a story where I must choose will and even kill my parents’ ideology, keeping, even rescuing, the mythology that they turned into organized religion. I’m confused because what I don’t get now manifests later. And my parents keep praying for the good to be greater and work the whole nation state into irrevocable havoc. What? How is it that going down for everyone else? Couldn’t I just stop, completely stop focusing on the elements that I dislike, pray (use the energy of my mind, heart, and soul), and banish lack forever from my life? Couldn’t I do that? So, solitude has evolved into a peace, a time everyday to write the evolving journal, The Faux Pas Press, let the world in, and be still. In a moment I travel to the base of Mexican temples, in a moment I see how all pressure is gone, in a moment I can travel the distance of human history. How many revolutions of the Earth? How long before Christians and Jews start burning Muslims on American soil? Tolerance is your joke that I’m smoking, your lie I’ve been stoking. I will live to see our economic problems resolved – even if we lose a few battles. I owe, for one of many, owe nothing to the children of Social Security, owe nothing to the parents of my high school classmates.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #56
The Faux Pas Press #56
12 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
“Argument moves through reason, justified by the Aquaman that forced me into this position, gave me a rhyme for the season. Don’t call me strange when consciousness exudes from my chakras. Don’t treat me with disdain when light seeps out the crack of my ass. I eat the same food you do, nigga’. The only difference is, I said, the only difference is – you don’t digest your carbohydrates. Matter of fact, you don’t digest much. Now, I’m not talking about your simple sugars – the Life Saver Gummies, sour candies with an intergalactic stank. You digest that shit just fine, motha’. What I’m talking about is the deep tissue-bending truth syrup. When somebody, anybody pours that maple moody syrup on you – you get all stank and shit.”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying….”
“Now, hold on, just hold on…..”
“No, seriously. You’re over here talking about Life Saver Gummies, language that no child can understand, language that can’t be understood, not even by the alien race that birthed us. You’re not making any sense. The Aquaman that forced you into this place gave neither rhyme of the season nor females for the teasing.”
“Goddamit, Jonesy. I need you to get me closer to a match. I need to find an extraterrestrial, solar-powered sister who is cleaner than clean. I’m talking about a sister who goes to church or the library or some shit.”
“Well, I’m not going to promise you pussy that I can’t deliver. I can’t promise you that she will digest like you either. Some gifts are the largest problems, Smithy.”
12 October 2010
By Jason Fresh
“Argument moves through reason, justified by the Aquaman that forced me into this position, gave me a rhyme for the season. Don’t call me strange when consciousness exudes from my chakras. Don’t treat me with disdain when light seeps out the crack of my ass. I eat the same food you do, nigga’. The only difference is, I said, the only difference is – you don’t digest your carbohydrates. Matter of fact, you don’t digest much. Now, I’m not talking about your simple sugars – the Life Saver Gummies, sour candies with an intergalactic stank. You digest that shit just fine, motha’. What I’m talking about is the deep tissue-bending truth syrup. When somebody, anybody pours that maple moody syrup on you – you get all stank and shit.”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying….”
“Now, hold on, just hold on…..”
“No, seriously. You’re over here talking about Life Saver Gummies, language that no child can understand, language that can’t be understood, not even by the alien race that birthed us. You’re not making any sense. The Aquaman that forced you into this place gave neither rhyme of the season nor females for the teasing.”
“Goddamit, Jonesy. I need you to get me closer to a match. I need to find an extraterrestrial, solar-powered sister who is cleaner than clean. I’m talking about a sister who goes to church or the library or some shit.”
“Well, I’m not going to promise you pussy that I can’t deliver. I can’t promise you that she will digest like you either. Some gifts are the largest problems, Smithy.”
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #55
The Faux Pas Press #55
By Jason Fresh
11 October 2010
If fads could be feelings I wish money were wasted on mine. I wish the lines of consumers entered my heart to buy the byproduct of a soul’s exorcism – wish they would buy my feelings like a pair of Keds was once bought for a 1980’s 6th grader, wish they would laugh at my feelings like a Youtube phenomenon. If fads could be feelings, especially mine, they would belong to everyone – not just me. So, I wouldn’t feel so bad about them. “How are your doing?” she asks. “Not very well, but then again, you already knew that. You’re wearing my shoes. They’re in this year.” Shit. If fads could be feelings I would not have to carry them forever. I could exchange them when the new fall line of clothing comes or I could just throw them away when they’ve outstayed their welcome.
I know that fads are dumped, cracked, and slung. They’re sold to the highest feeler. And the highest feeler is he who treads on fads, he who cozies up to the most recent advertisement. Yes, of course, but of course, feelings are fads. This is why the rain always passes and happy turns to sad. This is why my dad’s lot became my mother’s and my mom’s became my dad’s – why the shit turns to solid and why a frog was once a tad. Why my school teachers were always spiritually sick. This is why we invented words like fag. This is why he later becomes a Christian and the preacher secretly dresses in drag.
HHmmmmm. I think I’ll design my own fads from here on out. Yeah, yep, I think I’ll design my own fads.
By Jason Fresh
11 October 2010
If fads could be feelings I wish money were wasted on mine. I wish the lines of consumers entered my heart to buy the byproduct of a soul’s exorcism – wish they would buy my feelings like a pair of Keds was once bought for a 1980’s 6th grader, wish they would laugh at my feelings like a Youtube phenomenon. If fads could be feelings, especially mine, they would belong to everyone – not just me. So, I wouldn’t feel so bad about them. “How are your doing?” she asks. “Not very well, but then again, you already knew that. You’re wearing my shoes. They’re in this year.” Shit. If fads could be feelings I would not have to carry them forever. I could exchange them when the new fall line of clothing comes or I could just throw them away when they’ve outstayed their welcome.
I know that fads are dumped, cracked, and slung. They’re sold to the highest feeler. And the highest feeler is he who treads on fads, he who cozies up to the most recent advertisement. Yes, of course, but of course, feelings are fads. This is why the rain always passes and happy turns to sad. This is why my dad’s lot became my mother’s and my mom’s became my dad’s – why the shit turns to solid and why a frog was once a tad. Why my school teachers were always spiritually sick. This is why we invented words like fag. This is why he later becomes a Christian and the preacher secretly dresses in drag.
HHmmmmm. I think I’ll design my own fads from here on out. Yeah, yep, I think I’ll design my own fads.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #54
The Faux Pas Press #54
By Jason Fresh
I have seen the plow break fertile ground like a mother raising her hand to striking an infant – fresh, new, nutritious, almost edible ground. And like the infant, feeling the brashness of a young woman, a young mother discarded by an alpha male and sent to stave off the others in a State of Hawaii welfare line, the fertile ground waits for us to plant our seeds in it. And like the infant, free of guile and tradition, the Earth will give to those who honor it. The infant will begin learning much like the Earth has learnt. “Who will honor me? To whom is fortune due?”
I have been taught. Been taught by the worst of the best – also been taught by the best of the worst. And one thing (I would say ‘teaching’ if I still believed in those), one profound ‘thing’ that I’ve learnt is that the fertile ground will not lie, it will not cheat, it will not steal from you. It spits truth syrup forth from maple trees, it protrudes odors from the Earth’s layers, and it will give back to you what you put in to it. Whether you aim to emulate the valley and let all things flow to you or long to become the mountain, the Earth will show who is honored. One more thing about the fertile soil – it not only gives what you put in - it could potentially give you food for a thousand years.
Place seeds in those you love or desire. Water them. Nurture them. Then just fucking watch as fruit trees break the fertile ground on a human chest, bringing forth fruit to feed you for the rest of your days. The infant that you mistreat today might very well be the “hand that feeds you”. Careful.
By Jason Fresh
I have seen the plow break fertile ground like a mother raising her hand to striking an infant – fresh, new, nutritious, almost edible ground. And like the infant, feeling the brashness of a young woman, a young mother discarded by an alpha male and sent to stave off the others in a State of Hawaii welfare line, the fertile ground waits for us to plant our seeds in it. And like the infant, free of guile and tradition, the Earth will give to those who honor it. The infant will begin learning much like the Earth has learnt. “Who will honor me? To whom is fortune due?”
I have been taught. Been taught by the worst of the best – also been taught by the best of the worst. And one thing (I would say ‘teaching’ if I still believed in those), one profound ‘thing’ that I’ve learnt is that the fertile ground will not lie, it will not cheat, it will not steal from you. It spits truth syrup forth from maple trees, it protrudes odors from the Earth’s layers, and it will give back to you what you put in to it. Whether you aim to emulate the valley and let all things flow to you or long to become the mountain, the Earth will show who is honored. One more thing about the fertile soil – it not only gives what you put in - it could potentially give you food for a thousand years.
Place seeds in those you love or desire. Water them. Nurture them. Then just fucking watch as fruit trees break the fertile ground on a human chest, bringing forth fruit to feed you for the rest of your days. The infant that you mistreat today might very well be the “hand that feeds you”. Careful.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #53
The Faux Pas Press #53
By Jason Fresh
If you are convinced, much like me, that the world needs you, needs you much more than you need it – raise your hand. Raise your hand to the ghosts of your past who camp out in the walls of your rented abode (or the abode that you think you own, mortgaged, and entrusted to you in exchange for lifeblood). What I have to say about you will most certainly trouble you more than it will trouble me. I have seen the coming apocalypse, displayed before my view like the prophets of old – while I jerk off or drink a diet, organic, approved soda. The world depends on me to react to it, the frequencies of magnetic coil depend on my mind to respond and formulate. The actions that I take are mine and they will also become yours. So, the beauty is I don’t have to react to it. I can control my feelings. I can control my thoughts. Who then am I? So, we see The Faux Pas Press, the greatest creation in time. Because if the world needs me more than I need it then, most assuredly, I create what suits me and that is it - your creations are the greatest of time, your time. Congratulations. Most are incapable of such an existence.
I am already dead. I can move through the trails of these redwood forests for as long as I please. I am my grandfather sailing through the greenish walls of the Pacific, resting my head on a Japanese bed, and from Yokosuka take a lick.
By Jason Fresh
If you are convinced, much like me, that the world needs you, needs you much more than you need it – raise your hand. Raise your hand to the ghosts of your past who camp out in the walls of your rented abode (or the abode that you think you own, mortgaged, and entrusted to you in exchange for lifeblood). What I have to say about you will most certainly trouble you more than it will trouble me. I have seen the coming apocalypse, displayed before my view like the prophets of old – while I jerk off or drink a diet, organic, approved soda. The world depends on me to react to it, the frequencies of magnetic coil depend on my mind to respond and formulate. The actions that I take are mine and they will also become yours. So, the beauty is I don’t have to react to it. I can control my feelings. I can control my thoughts. Who then am I? So, we see The Faux Pas Press, the greatest creation in time. Because if the world needs me more than I need it then, most assuredly, I create what suits me and that is it - your creations are the greatest of time, your time. Congratulations. Most are incapable of such an existence.
I am already dead. I can move through the trails of these redwood forests for as long as I please. I am my grandfather sailing through the greenish walls of the Pacific, resting my head on a Japanese bed, and from Yokosuka take a lick.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #52
The Faux Pas Press #52
By Jason Fresh
For the home-comings that you’ve never had, for the beers you drink all alone - smelling not the fragrance of a lovely woman but the accumulative stank of your own farts beneath the covers; for the many cheers you’ve longed to raise your loved ones who know nothing of your secret crush – well, then – well, then what is the fucking meaning of it all? When all my yearnings move only a short distance through time, when a growing misanthropy swells like a virus inside, when I’ve fucked every last one – well, then – what the hell is there?
There was a dance choreographer who used to move my feet when my feet were unable. She was known, feared, and revered by any aspiring performer in the Dallas/Ft. Worth Metroplex, and anybody who knew what was good for him would listen to every word she spoke. Why? Because if you didn’t she would make you wish that you had – either by verbally berating your broken self-image or by literally twisting a testicle off, but beyond the fear of mutilation, a student would bathe himself in her words if he could. He knew those words were purchased with sweat. At some point – along the dark and mangled road of love’s labor lost in smoke and mirrors – at some point, I knew that she’d paid her price. Basically, I mean that she made choices – just choices – simple choices. She’d closed out some realities and chose to live in others. That is all I can hope for – just choices – no one choice greater than the next, purchased by sweat.
By Jason Fresh
For the home-comings that you’ve never had, for the beers you drink all alone - smelling not the fragrance of a lovely woman but the accumulative stank of your own farts beneath the covers; for the many cheers you’ve longed to raise your loved ones who know nothing of your secret crush – well, then – well, then what is the fucking meaning of it all? When all my yearnings move only a short distance through time, when a growing misanthropy swells like a virus inside, when I’ve fucked every last one – well, then – what the hell is there?
There was a dance choreographer who used to move my feet when my feet were unable. She was known, feared, and revered by any aspiring performer in the Dallas/Ft. Worth Metroplex, and anybody who knew what was good for him would listen to every word she spoke. Why? Because if you didn’t she would make you wish that you had – either by verbally berating your broken self-image or by literally twisting a testicle off, but beyond the fear of mutilation, a student would bathe himself in her words if he could. He knew those words were purchased with sweat. At some point – along the dark and mangled road of love’s labor lost in smoke and mirrors – at some point, I knew that she’d paid her price. Basically, I mean that she made choices – just choices – simple choices. She’d closed out some realities and chose to live in others. That is all I can hope for – just choices – no one choice greater than the next, purchased by sweat.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #51
The Faux Pas Press #51
By Jason Fresh
The sorcerer who works in the season of fall is sweet enough for all, but compliments often fall – yep, just like leaves – off the back of the great genius Parley Angerbliss. Winter comes as no surprise but it is always clean, glistening white with the Witch of the North. And there he stands, Parley Angerbliss, top hat resting prayerfully in two curved hands, two hands ablaze with the timeless shift, vibrating on VHF. And there I am, disgusted with myself for having such an open mind, sucking on my bleeding thumbs and wondering if my time will come. And then there is a woman asking me to waltz - yep, the sorcerers from the South, all of them, at the same time asking me to dance. There are sorcerers all across the Fold in the Fabric of Night, standing at every juncture, moving me from mundane to mundane event. But I must ignore them, must move past them, must feel the frequency on which I was conjured. I must find the frequency. It could’ve been a joke told by Sriram, the guide from Visakhapatnam. Must have been is way of getting me out of his lounge, a lounge made Crimson. And for this I am grateful.
There is only one node to which I am requested, to which I am called, a place upon which I must fall – yep, just like a leaf. Its color is Topaz and its frequency is constant – not a joke. So, come with me, Uncle, Topaz Traveler, for our presence is requested at the West End of the Fold in the Fabric of Night - yep, lined with golden alabaster stone on frequencies of pure light.
By Jason Fresh
The sorcerer who works in the season of fall is sweet enough for all, but compliments often fall – yep, just like leaves – off the back of the great genius Parley Angerbliss. Winter comes as no surprise but it is always clean, glistening white with the Witch of the North. And there he stands, Parley Angerbliss, top hat resting prayerfully in two curved hands, two hands ablaze with the timeless shift, vibrating on VHF. And there I am, disgusted with myself for having such an open mind, sucking on my bleeding thumbs and wondering if my time will come. And then there is a woman asking me to waltz - yep, the sorcerers from the South, all of them, at the same time asking me to dance. There are sorcerers all across the Fold in the Fabric of Night, standing at every juncture, moving me from mundane to mundane event. But I must ignore them, must move past them, must feel the frequency on which I was conjured. I must find the frequency. It could’ve been a joke told by Sriram, the guide from Visakhapatnam. Must have been is way of getting me out of his lounge, a lounge made Crimson. And for this I am grateful.
There is only one node to which I am requested, to which I am called, a place upon which I must fall – yep, just like a leaf. Its color is Topaz and its frequency is constant – not a joke. So, come with me, Uncle, Topaz Traveler, for our presence is requested at the West End of the Fold in the Fabric of Night - yep, lined with golden alabaster stone on frequencies of pure light.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #50
The Faux Pas Press #50
By Jason Fresh
Lacy Jackson Cambria swiftly moved her fingers across the angry face of her keyboard, perhaps not exhausting all of her inherent faculties – a sense of the common or knack for linear time. She wrote down the entitlement of marrying a man at his worst. It smelled like righteousness in her world that morning. There were pictures of all of her possessions on the wall – that’s right – pictures of her possessions.
A sensible person might ask himself, “Now, why on earth would Lacy Jackson Cambria hang pictures of possessions on her wall? Why wouldn’t she just buy an item – a vibrator perhaps – and enjoy the shit out of it?” And to you, sensible people of the Faux Pas Press, I would say that there are people who want to own you, own you like fans of Justin Bieber demand his signature, own you like a dog owner insists on a trick for a treat. For Lacy Jackson Cambria the possessions of this life are people, people who she will fatten up like Hansel and Gretel, people unaware they will soon become Sweet Tarts or Laffy Taffy for her to chew on.
Look out for Lacy Jackson Cambria. She will start by inviting you to parties, offering you food, offering you wine and frothy beverage, and before you know it, she’s got pictures of you in the Parthenon. She will even claim you as a child. Sometimes it is just better to eat Top Ramen with eggs in the comfort of your own home – or cardboard box - who cares? Beware the comforting gingerbread house in the woods.
By Jason Fresh
Lacy Jackson Cambria swiftly moved her fingers across the angry face of her keyboard, perhaps not exhausting all of her inherent faculties – a sense of the common or knack for linear time. She wrote down the entitlement of marrying a man at his worst. It smelled like righteousness in her world that morning. There were pictures of all of her possessions on the wall – that’s right – pictures of her possessions.
A sensible person might ask himself, “Now, why on earth would Lacy Jackson Cambria hang pictures of possessions on her wall? Why wouldn’t she just buy an item – a vibrator perhaps – and enjoy the shit out of it?” And to you, sensible people of the Faux Pas Press, I would say that there are people who want to own you, own you like fans of Justin Bieber demand his signature, own you like a dog owner insists on a trick for a treat. For Lacy Jackson Cambria the possessions of this life are people, people who she will fatten up like Hansel and Gretel, people unaware they will soon become Sweet Tarts or Laffy Taffy for her to chew on.
Look out for Lacy Jackson Cambria. She will start by inviting you to parties, offering you food, offering you wine and frothy beverage, and before you know it, she’s got pictures of you in the Parthenon. She will even claim you as a child. Sometimes it is just better to eat Top Ramen with eggs in the comfort of your own home – or cardboard box - who cares? Beware the comforting gingerbread house in the woods.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #49
The Faux Pas Press #49
By Jason Fresh
If you plan on living your life as a loner make sure you, at very least, have a contingency plan, some ugly broad who is tired of pleasuring herself, a gay neighbor who might want to make you muffins in the morning, a non-profit organization in which you can lose yourself. What you don’t want to do is tell your wife to take a hike, tell her that you can’t stand the sight of her anymore, and that you want to become a porn star-style bachelor with excess income and phone full of numbers. When you live in a society that is ripping apart at the seams, a place where the Children are calling the Folks out on all of their bullshit, where neighbors fear one another, you don’t want to be the single dude who has got time, money, and bitches – especially not when the rest of the world still suffers in nonsensical mediocrity. Because if you plan on being that guy then you’d better discover within yourself the Will to Power, you had better figure out how to cast spells over others, dance on broadcast television, or run marathons. Yeah, you’d better figure out how to do some amazing shit - do some yo-yo tricks or something. And after learning that you are, indeed, the center of the Universe, you’ll need to pretend like you don’t know – because there is nothing they hate more than a gifted man who isn’t also humble. No man wants to be the Father who can’t also play the Husband – but if you can pull it off, you’re golden.
By Jason Fresh
If you plan on living your life as a loner make sure you, at very least, have a contingency plan, some ugly broad who is tired of pleasuring herself, a gay neighbor who might want to make you muffins in the morning, a non-profit organization in which you can lose yourself. What you don’t want to do is tell your wife to take a hike, tell her that you can’t stand the sight of her anymore, and that you want to become a porn star-style bachelor with excess income and phone full of numbers. When you live in a society that is ripping apart at the seams, a place where the Children are calling the Folks out on all of their bullshit, where neighbors fear one another, you don’t want to be the single dude who has got time, money, and bitches – especially not when the rest of the world still suffers in nonsensical mediocrity. Because if you plan on being that guy then you’d better discover within yourself the Will to Power, you had better figure out how to cast spells over others, dance on broadcast television, or run marathons. Yeah, you’d better figure out how to do some amazing shit - do some yo-yo tricks or something. And after learning that you are, indeed, the center of the Universe, you’ll need to pretend like you don’t know – because there is nothing they hate more than a gifted man who isn’t also humble. No man wants to be the Father who can’t also play the Husband – but if you can pull it off, you’re golden.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #48
The Faux Pas Press #48
By Jason Fresh
Hawaii is a desert – not a dessert at a Chateau Marmot, not an escape from the meat and potatoes, not a release from your fears but an encounter with the Hawaiian gods waiting to break you. All the world points at paradise for a great release, all the world struggles with space-time to find it - like a well-dressed commoner fighting with surroundings to find lunch in a trashcan. Yes, all the world points to paradise as salvation from the Self. What is paradise for the few is purgatory for the many. What is escape for the West, what is escape for the Japanese tourist sporting western brands made in the East, is a workshop of dreams for those caught in the magnetic center. It is hell for the local, the military man, the servant, hell for the family pumping lifeblood into the machine to build it. Paradise is our construct. It is sand hauled in from the desert. Hawaii is a desert. It is volcanic protrusion covered in the illusion of autonomy, pure culture vanquished by competing empires. Hawaii is the last great stand. So, alas, it is here that I stand, it will be here that I swim, here that die. I am convinced that no free persons exist, and pretend as we might, every man has got pay the devil his due, pretend as we might, freedom is the joke smoked from the pipes of Samoans – desert weed in the belly of the Pacific.
By Jason Fresh
Hawaii is a desert – not a dessert at a Chateau Marmot, not an escape from the meat and potatoes, not a release from your fears but an encounter with the Hawaiian gods waiting to break you. All the world points at paradise for a great release, all the world struggles with space-time to find it - like a well-dressed commoner fighting with surroundings to find lunch in a trashcan. Yes, all the world points to paradise as salvation from the Self. What is paradise for the few is purgatory for the many. What is escape for the West, what is escape for the Japanese tourist sporting western brands made in the East, is a workshop of dreams for those caught in the magnetic center. It is hell for the local, the military man, the servant, hell for the family pumping lifeblood into the machine to build it. Paradise is our construct. It is sand hauled in from the desert. Hawaii is a desert. It is volcanic protrusion covered in the illusion of autonomy, pure culture vanquished by competing empires. Hawaii is the last great stand. So, alas, it is here that I stand, it will be here that I swim, here that die. I am convinced that no free persons exist, and pretend as we might, every man has got pay the devil his due, pretend as we might, freedom is the joke smoked from the pipes of Samoans – desert weed in the belly of the Pacific.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #47: What You Do
The Faux Pas Press #47
13 July 2010
By Jason Fresh
What You Do
Fuck Hemingway, who did little with the greatest war in history. And fuck people who act as if they are gonzo like Hunter S. Thompson. You will probably imitate the great genius, Parley Angerbliss, probably imitate like Plato foretold. If the essays of our time are written against the joyous life, if the only questions to which Americans are accustomed spike into the private workings of my paycheck, or the Johnson’s paycheck, or the Trumps, and if every artist concerns himself with not having one, then I will hold a square place, I will get away with becoming the artist, independent of drinking a 12 pack of Sierra Nevada while discussing political and economic upheaval, independent of reading the words of kids who think it was cool to get evicted. I’m a coward I guess, the one honest Coward. Mark Twain must not have been too sorry about his paycheck, what he did for a living. He probably felt poorly about all the money he invested so poorly.
“What do you do?” a charming female asks me. I’m trying to be moral, trying to be a man watching UFC 113 or 144 or some shit. She has rubbed my back a couple of times, not like my daughter rubs my arm, unknowing and innocent, but charmingly, intently, imagining that I’m a man with a job. I say, “What you do is figure out what you are. What I do is whatever I choose.” If you spend your entire life trying to figure out if the person you are talking to is cool enough - fuck you too. You have the right to live and the right to die however you want. I will be born old again, and again – just as I was born before and then killed by those who were not. That is what you do.
That is what you do. I’m not too good for the machine and neither are you.
13 July 2010
By Jason Fresh
What You Do
Fuck Hemingway, who did little with the greatest war in history. And fuck people who act as if they are gonzo like Hunter S. Thompson. You will probably imitate the great genius, Parley Angerbliss, probably imitate like Plato foretold. If the essays of our time are written against the joyous life, if the only questions to which Americans are accustomed spike into the private workings of my paycheck, or the Johnson’s paycheck, or the Trumps, and if every artist concerns himself with not having one, then I will hold a square place, I will get away with becoming the artist, independent of drinking a 12 pack of Sierra Nevada while discussing political and economic upheaval, independent of reading the words of kids who think it was cool to get evicted. I’m a coward I guess, the one honest Coward. Mark Twain must not have been too sorry about his paycheck, what he did for a living. He probably felt poorly about all the money he invested so poorly.
“What do you do?” a charming female asks me. I’m trying to be moral, trying to be a man watching UFC 113 or 144 or some shit. She has rubbed my back a couple of times, not like my daughter rubs my arm, unknowing and innocent, but charmingly, intently, imagining that I’m a man with a job. I say, “What you do is figure out what you are. What I do is whatever I choose.” If you spend your entire life trying to figure out if the person you are talking to is cool enough - fuck you too. You have the right to live and the right to die however you want. I will be born old again, and again – just as I was born before and then killed by those who were not. That is what you do.
That is what you do. I’m not too good for the machine and neither are you.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #46: Caffeinated and Emancipated
11 July 2010
The Faux Pas Press #46
By Jason Fresh
Caffeinated and Emancipated
There are many decisions that I make in the morning. One of the decisions that I make is whether or not to drink coffee. Whether or not to jump off the balcony outside of our living room down to a grassy stretch of lawn, perhaps injuring an ankle, limiting the spectrum of potential decisions is another. The decisions I make, like that of drinking a cup of coffee, have lasting consequences. Because I drink it, because I decide, I show that I’m emancipated, liberated from a long heritage of decisions of people who did not. Therefore, I am emancipating myself from the decisions of others, creating a future that is entirely my own, so that other decisions will have lasting consequences.
Drinking a cup of coffee. Yes, the practice implicates much more than routine, it represents purpose, intent, plans, and a whole spectrum of potential decisions, all hinging on the first choice of whether or not to drink a cup of coffee. Police officers and teachers drink java so they can maneuver through the machine, being careful not to piss on the wrong person - oh so careful not to drink too much coffee and lose control of their emotions when speaking to a student who might later become a criminal who drinks a cup of coffee before violating a law that violates said teacher causing a caffeinated police officer to arrest the former student – perhaps leading to a long heritage of new decisions. Drinking one cup of coffee, on this friendly morning, is one decision that led to the keyboard. But I don’t know what the page will bring, nor do I know what tomorrow brings. But, the decision will be mine. This I can assure you – a heritage of me.
Caffeinated and Emancipated.
The Faux Pas Press #46
By Jason Fresh
Caffeinated and Emancipated
There are many decisions that I make in the morning. One of the decisions that I make is whether or not to drink coffee. Whether or not to jump off the balcony outside of our living room down to a grassy stretch of lawn, perhaps injuring an ankle, limiting the spectrum of potential decisions is another. The decisions I make, like that of drinking a cup of coffee, have lasting consequences. Because I drink it, because I decide, I show that I’m emancipated, liberated from a long heritage of decisions of people who did not. Therefore, I am emancipating myself from the decisions of others, creating a future that is entirely my own, so that other decisions will have lasting consequences.
Drinking a cup of coffee. Yes, the practice implicates much more than routine, it represents purpose, intent, plans, and a whole spectrum of potential decisions, all hinging on the first choice of whether or not to drink a cup of coffee. Police officers and teachers drink java so they can maneuver through the machine, being careful not to piss on the wrong person - oh so careful not to drink too much coffee and lose control of their emotions when speaking to a student who might later become a criminal who drinks a cup of coffee before violating a law that violates said teacher causing a caffeinated police officer to arrest the former student – perhaps leading to a long heritage of new decisions. Drinking one cup of coffee, on this friendly morning, is one decision that led to the keyboard. But I don’t know what the page will bring, nor do I know what tomorrow brings. But, the decision will be mine. This I can assure you – a heritage of me.
Caffeinated and Emancipated.
The Faux Pas Press #45: Mililani Town Center
11 July 2010
The Faux Pas Press #45
Mililani Town Center
By Jason Fresh
When you’ve discovered that excitement on a Saturday night means a trip to the Mililani Town Center, you can not only likely say but surely say that you’ve been married long enough to hate it, that you’ve been duped into supporting values you’ve sworn to destroy. You’ve been sold on an idea that a loving father wears clothing purchased at the Levi store. He also smiles charmingly at a Baskin Robin’s cashier.
Though you fancy your partner well enough and can’t get enough of your beautiful daughter - you also realize that life in Mililani really sucks for most people.
Like you, most men have been duped into believing that a wife really wants anything other that to use you (and rightly so, this is how she survives - through seduction and avarice.) You discover that you not only hate marriage but all those who uphold its shrubby foliage with the idea that someday, somehow the right person will come along and make life happy.
Or, that you hate those dead set on convincing themselves that the right person has already arrived. Yes, just like Fatmandu, the chubby bastard wearing an over-sized cotton Faded Glory brand collared shirt smiles as he walks into Assagio, a poor excuse for Italian cuisine, and his angst-ridden wife trots behind him. They will go home and engage in what they call sex – this is only because they don’t know any better. At the Mililani Town Center, fat, happy, Thai-food eating folks converse over grub pulled from the earth in unsustainable ways, cooked by underpaid slaves in the Home of the Free, and regurgitated in church restrooms on Sunday morning, churches where pastors preach on the harmonious family unit and its lasting importance.
But it all starts right there – right there at the fucking Mililani Town Center.
And yes – it all ends here – right here at the Mililani Town Center.
The Faux Pas Press #45
Mililani Town Center
By Jason Fresh
When you’ve discovered that excitement on a Saturday night means a trip to the Mililani Town Center, you can not only likely say but surely say that you’ve been married long enough to hate it, that you’ve been duped into supporting values you’ve sworn to destroy. You’ve been sold on an idea that a loving father wears clothing purchased at the Levi store. He also smiles charmingly at a Baskin Robin’s cashier.
Though you fancy your partner well enough and can’t get enough of your beautiful daughter - you also realize that life in Mililani really sucks for most people.
Like you, most men have been duped into believing that a wife really wants anything other that to use you (and rightly so, this is how she survives - through seduction and avarice.) You discover that you not only hate marriage but all those who uphold its shrubby foliage with the idea that someday, somehow the right person will come along and make life happy.
Or, that you hate those dead set on convincing themselves that the right person has already arrived. Yes, just like Fatmandu, the chubby bastard wearing an over-sized cotton Faded Glory brand collared shirt smiles as he walks into Assagio, a poor excuse for Italian cuisine, and his angst-ridden wife trots behind him. They will go home and engage in what they call sex – this is only because they don’t know any better. At the Mililani Town Center, fat, happy, Thai-food eating folks converse over grub pulled from the earth in unsustainable ways, cooked by underpaid slaves in the Home of the Free, and regurgitated in church restrooms on Sunday morning, churches where pastors preach on the harmonious family unit and its lasting importance.
But it all starts right there – right there at the fucking Mililani Town Center.
And yes – it all ends here – right here at the Mililani Town Center.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #44: I Don't Need My Heart Anymore
06 JULY 2010
The Faux Pas Press #44
I Don't Need My Heart Anymore
a song
track one
The Topaz Lounge
by Jason Fresh
take this heart of mine and break it down
like you've always done before
slip, slip, and slide upon my blood
that you spilt upon the floor
erase the fragile line beneath
the x of my suicide amore
rip, rip out the page of simple faith
that you simply can't restore
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
jump into the sox with chicken pox
soiled from the night before
rock, rock my socks, oh goldilocks,
oh you filthy little whore
crank a jack in the box and spin it 'round,
oh, pop open these trap doors
slap, slap, slap the wrist of
where I've been and the silly lies you poor
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
when all is said and done, you've
reached the end of this woman's foolish soar
believe, believe the lie that your
broken life, it has crystalline decor
suck, suck, sucky, suck at
the mucky duck, oh, and let it be a chore
march, march, trough it all
and walk it tall, oh, bring pretty little whores
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
no, I don't need my heart anymore
The Faux Pas Press #44
I Don't Need My Heart Anymore
a song
track one
The Topaz Lounge
by Jason Fresh
take this heart of mine and break it down
like you've always done before
slip, slip, and slide upon my blood
that you spilt upon the floor
erase the fragile line beneath
the x of my suicide amore
rip, rip out the page of simple faith
that you simply can't restore
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
jump into the sox with chicken pox
soiled from the night before
rock, rock my socks, oh goldilocks,
oh you filthy little whore
crank a jack in the box and spin it 'round,
oh, pop open these trap doors
slap, slap, slap the wrist of
where I've been and the silly lies you poor
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
when all is said and done, you've
reached the end of this woman's foolish soar
believe, believe the lie that your
broken life, it has crystalline decor
suck, suck, sucky, suck at
the mucky duck, oh, and let it be a chore
march, march, trough it all
and walk it tall, oh, bring pretty little whores
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
no, I don't need my heart anymore
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #43: To Bad So Sad
The Faux Pas Press #43
Too Bad So Sad
a song
By Jason Fresh
04 July 2010
http://www.youtube.com/user/fauxpaspress
i melt down on a highway with a gentle ease
look back to the west with a cry for a chickadee
insist that its my way not the highway on a salt breeze
the mockingbird sits outside my window on a willow tree
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but I echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
a broken promise can play like a remedy
on the vinyl recording you play of your tragedy
your act of love and forgiveness is a fallacy
i don't like what i'm hearing on the frequency
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but I echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
the craft ain't torn no more
i've broken the golden key and I closed the door
no good it does to try with you
if i did, if i did I would lay down and die with you
the burned pair of clothes that I wear, they look so clean
engaged to a dark bride I surrender to the obscene
you can place all the memories we had in a guillotine
i live forever with the gods in a submarine
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but i echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
too bad so sad
Too Bad So Sad
a song
By Jason Fresh
04 July 2010
http://www.youtube.com/user/fauxpaspress
i melt down on a highway with a gentle ease
look back to the west with a cry for a chickadee
insist that its my way not the highway on a salt breeze
the mockingbird sits outside my window on a willow tree
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but I echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
a broken promise can play like a remedy
on the vinyl recording you play of your tragedy
your act of love and forgiveness is a fallacy
i don't like what i'm hearing on the frequency
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but I echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
the craft ain't torn no more
i've broken the golden key and I closed the door
no good it does to try with you
if i did, if i did I would lay down and die with you
the burned pair of clothes that I wear, they look so clean
engaged to a dark bride I surrender to the obscene
you can place all the memories we had in a guillotine
i live forever with the gods in a submarine
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but i echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
too bad so sad
Saturday, July 3, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #42: A Father's Love
The Faux Pas Press #42
A Father’s Love
By Jason Fresh
03 July 2010
What is good about families is that they are forever.
What is good about a father is that he wants the best for his children.
This edition of The Faux Pas Press sings praises to one of the nearest and dearest people in my life. A man who will someday be the first Mormon President of the United States of America – I’m talking about my father. He is a loving, swell, and most importantly, a “righteous” man. What’s great about this guy is that even after having asked him to leave me and my family alone, he persists – he won’t quit, you know. That is important to do as a father - even when all that your son has asked for is a little room to breathe. A father’s love, you know.
Dad, I just want to thank you for sharing your thoughts. You’ve given me plenty – just what I needed for my first father’s day and a happy 4th of July. Here’s looking at you, Mormo. I am excited to report that this letter from you has inspired me to go and look up the definition of bipolar disorder since it seems that all of you fuckers have it.
And, you, yes you, Richard can suck it – not mine, of course, the girl formally known as my sister made it clear that I do not have one. I guess miracles never cease right guys? And no, Guadalupe Alisa or whatever the hell your name is – I will not be fighting you. As a matter of fact, we won’t be dealing with each other ever. Besides it wouldn’t be fair for a Middleweight to fight Heavyweight. You got all the advantages – all your military training, right? The Army, the Navy, and the Marines? That is pretty impressive. I’m sure you make yourself proud. You probably learned to embellish your accomplishments from our father – Go Army Rangers, right? Unbelievable.
Here he is folks – the one, the only guy who assumes that all of my writing is about him.
Here is his response to The Faux Pas Press #38: The Banishing of Clyde McGoo, a fictional character, and a character I created on which to place my emotional charge, to deal with my own emotional trauma. I’ve have tried to process my emotions so I can be a better war fighter and a better father. Apparently, this isn’t good enough when religion becomes obsession. I did not send an email with the piece to anyone. I didn’t think anybody actually read my blog. Richard indicted himself. The idea was that if I could create an alter-ego, a hypersigil, someone not connected with me, that I could work my way into a relationship with my family again. I wouldn’t have to hate my father – I could hate Clyde McGoo. This has worked for many writers to gain healing. I was honestly thinking that if I could say what I really felt to my family in a fictional character that they would understand and we could move on. This was an experiment to see just how far it would cut. I used images that my father hates – images like Lucifer. He shows his true colors here. I don’t worship Lucifer but I’m beginning to wonder about some people. Well, it so happens that this piece marks the first battle of what may become a long war if my father does not back down and stop harassing my family. He and his wife have already frightened my wife and in-laws – this while my wife and I work through our own issues – mainly trying to maintain our little family. Thanks for contributing you positive energy to our families growth. Shame on you.
Starting to look a lot like the characters I created guys. Congratulations – confirming my theory that there are worse things in life than being alone. You could be trapped in a living room around a Christmas tree with these people.
Here is his email. Enjoy.
Jason,
One more apology is in order. I am sorry for being a weak dad, and apologizing so much. On the other side, please, realize that as a weak, just-trying-to-make-it-type dad that I believe strongly when we have done wrong, it is appropriate to apologize. So I have tried to apologize where appropriate. So before you stop reading my emails, posts, and letters, please, please read this one. It would just mean so much if you did, please. I just need to finish a few more apologies and I can go to my tomb in peace.
I apologize for getting up and going to those stupid cubicles for those thousands of days on end to put food on the table for you, I should have been strong and forceful enough to be a corporate president so that you would have had a bigger house, and better clothes, and nicer cars to drive. Please, please forgive me.
I apologize for going to every baseball, football, rehearsal, and performance for you. (By the way, when you looked up and saw me reading a book ONCE, I did that when you were in the dugout, and not at bat or on the field). Please, please forgive me for reading when you were in the dugout with your back turned. Forgive me for all of those wittle things, because I should have had the money, to pay for the finest of teams and dance companies. By the by, I battled with your mom for the Karate lessons and lost. My apologies for battling with your mom every fucking second for every fucking cent for you and your activities, I should have taken an easier course A) Abandoned you to her, and you would have gotten no support B) Abused her to make her obey (make sure you abuse, abuse Liz and get her to obey – Do not, do not follow the Mormon way – instead abuse the bitch.) (Oh my, on that one, are Mormon men weak and submissive or abusive? --- whoops depends on who you talk to I guess, wish those damn antimorgs made up their fucking minds on this issue!!) C) Worked even more jobs delivering pizza. My apologies for not being a strong he-man type like you and having done one of those things. (Your turn is coming my friend, just wait, Karma is a bitch, the universe has a way of turning our judgments back on our ass with a vengeance!).
I apologize for paying for college at Montana State, but as a weak pathetic dad, you should have been at Harvard for 4 years, and I should have had the money for that. (By the by, I battled with your mom, to get you the money that year, she did not want to send you a cent for college).
I apologize for all of the cars I gave you to drive. As our buddies in Plano pointed out, what an embarrassing set of pathetic used cars they were. I apologize for not having them washed and all new-car scented for you. (Did you ever fucking wash one car in those years?) I should have delivered more pizza and got you a fucking Ferrari, man. So sorry. By the way you fucking destroyed the Suburban by not checking the oil, Asshole.
I am so so sorry for having gotten you involved in the Mormon Church (little-referred-to as the Church of Jesus Christ). I have come to realize over the years that the Mormon Church is responsible for…. (take a deep breath, now)…. All guilt, all abuse, all suffering, all lies, all wars, all poverty, all distortions in the history of the world, all of your sad misfortunes, and…, the Kennedy Assassination, and the extinction of the Kiwi.
And more than anything else, I’m sorry for myself, having somehow managed to spoil someone enough to have developed such a whining, complaining, poor-me-so-abused-and-ignored-one-more-middle-child-so-forlorn, ungrateful attitude. As they say in AA --- poor me, poor me, pour me another drink. Did you pick up that I-am-so-sorry-for-myself attitude from your mom, so much like her, oh my --- what a terrible thought!
By the way your story about my talking to the papers with respect to Rozana , sounds like another distorted piece of your poor-me-middle-child distorted history. I believe they called me, and asked for the info, asshole.
So pwease pwease forgive me, I am so weak and pathetic.
By the way, you are not the only life which I am responsible for totally and completely ruining, I am responsible for all pain in my dads, my brothers, Alexandra’s, and your mothers life too. (Ask any of them on the other side, and they will affirm that for you. I am such a smuck-tee-smuck son-of-a-bitch!!)
By the way, I have guns, knives and lawyers on the stand-by also. I have gotten 4 people arrested, and three bishops removed from office. Oh yeah, oh yeah, I am a bad ass mother fucker like you, oh yeah.
There, another weak letter for your weak dad.
P.S. By the way Jason, Rule of Hitler for you --- Never, Never apologize for anything --- you will appear weak. There are other rules from Hitler, but I think you know them all.
Jason Scott! The way you are going about this is wrong. Turn, turn, turn around, please Son. With all facetiousness aside, I do love you, but I will not put up with your bull-shit. There is another better way. Be a real man and take it! I do want a relationship with you, but ONLY if you do not lecture me or interrupt me. Otherwise forget it! Touche.
Dad.
Jason, you will keep getting this letter in various forms until I know you have gotten to this line. Respond how you will, but you will fucking read this letter!”
The beautiful words of a Mormon prophet. I love how he has confused my sister with someone named Rozana. Also, Richard – if you are going to say “touché” please make sure that you use an accent mark. Otherwise, it just looks like you are calling yourself a douche and you just spelled it wrong. Patrons of the Press, please be advised that my father is an expert on Nazism too. So, just in case you were wondering – his new book, The Rules of Hitler will be coming to a LDS bookstore not-so-close to you. Also, I will open the comment section back up if you would like to enlighten us on what antimorg means. Thank you, senor. You are the greatest. One more thing, the universe will have to bring judgment on my ass – there is no “our ass”, never was really. Sorry about the suburban though. Let me get this straight – you are calling me an asshole, right? Got it. Shit, one more thing – this is all so good. Are you threatening to stab me or shoot me?
After all, you do love me, right? Thanks, Dad. Just keep my wife and daughter’s name out of your righteous mouth – and you sir, you turn the fuck around and leave us alone. Or “our ass” is going to have a big problem. Forget it (Take that, you big sexy Man of God, you. "I got three bishops removed. I really matter. I really matter.")
This really is embarrasing though. You guys just need to fucking not talk to me. How much bullshit and interrupting do I have to do for you to leave me alone.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
A Father’s Love
By Jason Fresh
03 July 2010
What is good about families is that they are forever.
What is good about a father is that he wants the best for his children.
This edition of The Faux Pas Press sings praises to one of the nearest and dearest people in my life. A man who will someday be the first Mormon President of the United States of America – I’m talking about my father. He is a loving, swell, and most importantly, a “righteous” man. What’s great about this guy is that even after having asked him to leave me and my family alone, he persists – he won’t quit, you know. That is important to do as a father - even when all that your son has asked for is a little room to breathe. A father’s love, you know.
Dad, I just want to thank you for sharing your thoughts. You’ve given me plenty – just what I needed for my first father’s day and a happy 4th of July. Here’s looking at you, Mormo. I am excited to report that this letter from you has inspired me to go and look up the definition of bipolar disorder since it seems that all of you fuckers have it.
And, you, yes you, Richard can suck it – not mine, of course, the girl formally known as my sister made it clear that I do not have one. I guess miracles never cease right guys? And no, Guadalupe Alisa or whatever the hell your name is – I will not be fighting you. As a matter of fact, we won’t be dealing with each other ever. Besides it wouldn’t be fair for a Middleweight to fight Heavyweight. You got all the advantages – all your military training, right? The Army, the Navy, and the Marines? That is pretty impressive. I’m sure you make yourself proud. You probably learned to embellish your accomplishments from our father – Go Army Rangers, right? Unbelievable.
Here he is folks – the one, the only guy who assumes that all of my writing is about him.
Here is his response to The Faux Pas Press #38: The Banishing of Clyde McGoo, a fictional character, and a character I created on which to place my emotional charge, to deal with my own emotional trauma. I’ve have tried to process my emotions so I can be a better war fighter and a better father. Apparently, this isn’t good enough when religion becomes obsession. I did not send an email with the piece to anyone. I didn’t think anybody actually read my blog. Richard indicted himself. The idea was that if I could create an alter-ego, a hypersigil, someone not connected with me, that I could work my way into a relationship with my family again. I wouldn’t have to hate my father – I could hate Clyde McGoo. This has worked for many writers to gain healing. I was honestly thinking that if I could say what I really felt to my family in a fictional character that they would understand and we could move on. This was an experiment to see just how far it would cut. I used images that my father hates – images like Lucifer. He shows his true colors here. I don’t worship Lucifer but I’m beginning to wonder about some people. Well, it so happens that this piece marks the first battle of what may become a long war if my father does not back down and stop harassing my family. He and his wife have already frightened my wife and in-laws – this while my wife and I work through our own issues – mainly trying to maintain our little family. Thanks for contributing you positive energy to our families growth. Shame on you.
Starting to look a lot like the characters I created guys. Congratulations – confirming my theory that there are worse things in life than being alone. You could be trapped in a living room around a Christmas tree with these people.
Here is his email. Enjoy.
Jason,
One more apology is in order. I am sorry for being a weak dad, and apologizing so much. On the other side, please, realize that as a weak, just-trying-to-make-it-type dad that I believe strongly when we have done wrong, it is appropriate to apologize. So I have tried to apologize where appropriate. So before you stop reading my emails, posts, and letters, please, please read this one. It would just mean so much if you did, please. I just need to finish a few more apologies and I can go to my tomb in peace.
I apologize for getting up and going to those stupid cubicles for those thousands of days on end to put food on the table for you, I should have been strong and forceful enough to be a corporate president so that you would have had a bigger house, and better clothes, and nicer cars to drive. Please, please forgive me.
I apologize for going to every baseball, football, rehearsal, and performance for you. (By the way, when you looked up and saw me reading a book ONCE, I did that when you were in the dugout, and not at bat or on the field). Please, please forgive me for reading when you were in the dugout with your back turned. Forgive me for all of those wittle things, because I should have had the money, to pay for the finest of teams and dance companies. By the by, I battled with your mom for the Karate lessons and lost. My apologies for battling with your mom every fucking second for every fucking cent for you and your activities, I should have taken an easier course A) Abandoned you to her, and you would have gotten no support B) Abused her to make her obey (make sure you abuse, abuse Liz and get her to obey – Do not, do not follow the Mormon way – instead abuse the bitch.) (Oh my, on that one, are Mormon men weak and submissive or abusive? --- whoops depends on who you talk to I guess, wish those damn antimorgs made up their fucking minds on this issue!!) C) Worked even more jobs delivering pizza. My apologies for not being a strong he-man type like you and having done one of those things. (Your turn is coming my friend, just wait, Karma is a bitch, the universe has a way of turning our judgments back on our ass with a vengeance!).
I apologize for paying for college at Montana State, but as a weak pathetic dad, you should have been at Harvard for 4 years, and I should have had the money for that. (By the by, I battled with your mom, to get you the money that year, she did not want to send you a cent for college).
I apologize for all of the cars I gave you to drive. As our buddies in Plano pointed out, what an embarrassing set of pathetic used cars they were. I apologize for not having them washed and all new-car scented for you. (Did you ever fucking wash one car in those years?) I should have delivered more pizza and got you a fucking Ferrari, man. So sorry. By the way you fucking destroyed the Suburban by not checking the oil, Asshole.
I am so so sorry for having gotten you involved in the Mormon Church (little-referred-to as the Church of Jesus Christ). I have come to realize over the years that the Mormon Church is responsible for…. (take a deep breath, now)…. All guilt, all abuse, all suffering, all lies, all wars, all poverty, all distortions in the history of the world, all of your sad misfortunes, and…, the Kennedy Assassination, and the extinction of the Kiwi.
And more than anything else, I’m sorry for myself, having somehow managed to spoil someone enough to have developed such a whining, complaining, poor-me-so-abused-and-ignored-one-more-middle-child-so-forlorn, ungrateful attitude. As they say in AA --- poor me, poor me, pour me another drink. Did you pick up that I-am-so-sorry-for-myself attitude from your mom, so much like her, oh my --- what a terrible thought!
By the way your story about my talking to the papers with respect to Rozana , sounds like another distorted piece of your poor-me-middle-child distorted history. I believe they called me, and asked for the info, asshole.
So pwease pwease forgive me, I am so weak and pathetic.
By the way, you are not the only life which I am responsible for totally and completely ruining, I am responsible for all pain in my dads, my brothers, Alexandra’s, and your mothers life too. (Ask any of them on the other side, and they will affirm that for you. I am such a smuck-tee-smuck son-of-a-bitch!!)
By the way, I have guns, knives and lawyers on the stand-by also. I have gotten 4 people arrested, and three bishops removed from office. Oh yeah, oh yeah, I am a bad ass mother fucker like you, oh yeah.
There, another weak letter for your weak dad.
P.S. By the way Jason, Rule of Hitler for you --- Never, Never apologize for anything --- you will appear weak. There are other rules from Hitler, but I think you know them all.
Jason Scott! The way you are going about this is wrong. Turn, turn, turn around, please Son. With all facetiousness aside, I do love you, but I will not put up with your bull-shit. There is another better way. Be a real man and take it! I do want a relationship with you, but ONLY if you do not lecture me or interrupt me. Otherwise forget it! Touche.
Dad.
Jason, you will keep getting this letter in various forms until I know you have gotten to this line. Respond how you will, but you will fucking read this letter!”
The beautiful words of a Mormon prophet. I love how he has confused my sister with someone named Rozana. Also, Richard – if you are going to say “touché” please make sure that you use an accent mark. Otherwise, it just looks like you are calling yourself a douche and you just spelled it wrong. Patrons of the Press, please be advised that my father is an expert on Nazism too. So, just in case you were wondering – his new book, The Rules of Hitler will be coming to a LDS bookstore not-so-close to you. Also, I will open the comment section back up if you would like to enlighten us on what antimorg means. Thank you, senor. You are the greatest. One more thing, the universe will have to bring judgment on my ass – there is no “our ass”, never was really. Sorry about the suburban though. Let me get this straight – you are calling me an asshole, right? Got it. Shit, one more thing – this is all so good. Are you threatening to stab me or shoot me?
After all, you do love me, right? Thanks, Dad. Just keep my wife and daughter’s name out of your righteous mouth – and you sir, you turn the fuck around and leave us alone. Or “our ass” is going to have a big problem. Forget it (Take that, you big sexy Man of God, you. "I got three bishops removed. I really matter. I really matter.")
This really is embarrasing though. You guys just need to fucking not talk to me. How much bullshit and interrupting do I have to do for you to leave me alone.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
Friday, July 2, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #41: The Coward
The Faux Pas Press #41
The Coward
By Jason Fresh
02 JULY 2010
Does it feel good
to be a coward?
Yes, of course.
Does it feel good to be the crucified
Jason for your family to worship?
No – no it does not.
Because I
deserve better,
don’t I?
“We are all praying for you
and we all want the
best for you.”
Really?
When the best
is according to you.
What they don’t tell you
before you’re born
is that you will be
hated.
What they don’t tell you
before they curse you
is that they are done,
elated,
to crown and
thorn you.
When you’re broken inside,
when all you’ve tried has been
laughed away,
when all who’ve claimed
to love you
got nothings spray,
and a list of
bad tidings to send
you’re way –
become a coward,
run away,
and they will find
you and
burn you someday.
Just try to
send ideas our there.
For example,
say you know people
that you don’t really know,
say you know
a little troll woman
that looks like a goat,
that has been
tattered and torn,
maybe decides to gloat
about things you
don’t really care about.
You will probably
need to run away from her.
I know.
You’ll want to pretend
that you’re tough
and give her your energy.
But don’t.
Just live your life.
Just live your life.
Shed them all off
when you must or
they will drag you down.
And build
what you want
to build.
Spend time with the friends with a higher yield.
Just run and live.
What they don’t know
is that you have all the cards.
What they don’t is that you are better equipped.
What they don’t is that you can sneek up
on them whenever you want.
What they don’t know about
you will keep them up at night,
wondering when you’ll come,
when you come in from the bush,
out from the Middle East or
Bhutan or Bangladesh
They won’t know about all the
“things”
you’ve learned.
So, they will leave you alone.
Won’t they? Forever. Won’t they?
or Indonesia
or Texas
or Arizona
How does it feel to be a coward?
Really good - if I do say.
The Coward
By Jason Fresh
02 JULY 2010
Does it feel good
to be a coward?
Yes, of course.
Does it feel good to be the crucified
Jason for your family to worship?
No – no it does not.
Because I
deserve better,
don’t I?
“We are all praying for you
and we all want the
best for you.”
Really?
When the best
is according to you.
What they don’t tell you
before you’re born
is that you will be
hated.
What they don’t tell you
before they curse you
is that they are done,
elated,
to crown and
thorn you.
When you’re broken inside,
when all you’ve tried has been
laughed away,
when all who’ve claimed
to love you
got nothings spray,
and a list of
bad tidings to send
you’re way –
become a coward,
run away,
and they will find
you and
burn you someday.
Just try to
send ideas our there.
For example,
say you know people
that you don’t really know,
say you know
a little troll woman
that looks like a goat,
that has been
tattered and torn,
maybe decides to gloat
about things you
don’t really care about.
You will probably
need to run away from her.
I know.
You’ll want to pretend
that you’re tough
and give her your energy.
But don’t.
Just live your life.
Just live your life.
Shed them all off
when you must or
they will drag you down.
And build
what you want
to build.
Spend time with the friends with a higher yield.
Just run and live.
What they don’t know
is that you have all the cards.
What they don’t is that you are better equipped.
What they don’t is that you can sneek up
on them whenever you want.
What they don’t know about
you will keep them up at night,
wondering when you’ll come,
when you come in from the bush,
out from the Middle East or
Bhutan or Bangladesh
They won’t know about all the
“things”
you’ve learned.
So, they will leave you alone.
Won’t they? Forever. Won’t they?
or Indonesia
or Texas
or Arizona
How does it feel to be a coward?
Really good - if I do say.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #40: The Jail Cell of Maribel Sandoval
The Faux Pas Press #40
29 June 2010
The Jail Cell of Maribel Sandoval
By
Jason
Fresh
Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.
Light shines on only one square in the prison cell of Maribel Sandoval. She hovers over food served on a plastic trey, sitting in the cramped corner closest to 2’ by 2’ square of light, a square projected through a proportional window pane like a black movie screen. There is no movie to watch now.
Before, she ran around town seeking thrills, wondering from pub to pub, club to club, searching for the next great event. Before, she planned out an evening based data gathered from a game show audience she called “friends”. She planned her life based on the promptings of others, curious, always curious as to how it would end – the story written by God. “How are you guys? What are ya’ll up to tonight? Are ya‘ll going to Level 4?”
Maribel Sandoval was informed and interested. Parents called her on regular basis to check up. A mother called her to discuss the prospects. But there are no prospects in the jail cell of Maribel Sandoval. In truth, there are just as many as there were before. Cold floors where not what she was used going to college in Texas. Desolate features of a prison cell are similar to the sterile look of dorm room walls, the open, plastic finish of industrial-style tile, and a sink that girls could pee in – only if they were too tired to use the head down the corridor. These were all traits of a cell she could make her own. The only difference is that this cell would not have as many solutions. Yes, as she hovers over the plastic tray, reminiscent of those plastic industrial-style tiles, she thinks about her lot, wondering as she pokes at rehydrated potatoes why she is being punished by the Fury. “Did I speak too quickly or too forcefully?” she questions herself, the type of question that a crazy person employs, perhaps to mask an delusion, an ingrained, historic, gradual process of washing ones sins away.
Maribel could not be punished in a more suitable way. This cell is a place that the Fury created for individuals who do harm, use, and enslave others without acknowledging their wrongs. This sad truth is that he, the Fury, can keep the swiftly-aging Maribel Sandoval in this cell for as long it takes. An even more devastating truth is that the key to her freedom is not a golden piece of metal forged by a little Chinese man locked away in a closet. No, the key is a simple admission of guilt. She had pledged herself to the Fury before, but she had to go and fuck a Hollywood celebrity and pretend that she didn’t. This is just like little Robbie Hubbard, tattooing crosses on his body like a badge of courage or righteousness. Well, his cell is right down the hall. Yes, the Fury keeps all of the deceivers right here, right here at the WEST END of the FOLD IN THE FABRIC OF NIGHT. I guess the question we must ask ourselves, the patrons of the Faux Pas Press is: what is virtue? What will happen to the enemies of the Fury? This is a laughable question to me, but I have to ask. I’m the Keeper of the Fold. That is my honorable title. Not like the Fishers of Men on Earth. Yes, virtue here is wickedness there. Funny isn’t it? A pity
The prison cell of Maribel Sandoval can be destroyed whenever she wants it destroyed. She could be released and go on to create life and live it in whatever way suits her. But she will most likely just sit there, rotting away, staring at rehydrated mashed potatoes and a plastic trey, reminiscent of the industrial-style tile at a redneck college just North of Austin. What a pity!
29 June 2010
The Jail Cell of Maribel Sandoval
By
Jason
Fresh
Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.
Light shines on only one square in the prison cell of Maribel Sandoval. She hovers over food served on a plastic trey, sitting in the cramped corner closest to 2’ by 2’ square of light, a square projected through a proportional window pane like a black movie screen. There is no movie to watch now.
Before, she ran around town seeking thrills, wondering from pub to pub, club to club, searching for the next great event. Before, she planned out an evening based data gathered from a game show audience she called “friends”. She planned her life based on the promptings of others, curious, always curious as to how it would end – the story written by God. “How are you guys? What are ya’ll up to tonight? Are ya‘ll going to Level 4?”
Maribel Sandoval was informed and interested. Parents called her on regular basis to check up. A mother called her to discuss the prospects. But there are no prospects in the jail cell of Maribel Sandoval. In truth, there are just as many as there were before. Cold floors where not what she was used going to college in Texas. Desolate features of a prison cell are similar to the sterile look of dorm room walls, the open, plastic finish of industrial-style tile, and a sink that girls could pee in – only if they were too tired to use the head down the corridor. These were all traits of a cell she could make her own. The only difference is that this cell would not have as many solutions. Yes, as she hovers over the plastic tray, reminiscent of those plastic industrial-style tiles, she thinks about her lot, wondering as she pokes at rehydrated potatoes why she is being punished by the Fury. “Did I speak too quickly or too forcefully?” she questions herself, the type of question that a crazy person employs, perhaps to mask an delusion, an ingrained, historic, gradual process of washing ones sins away.
Maribel could not be punished in a more suitable way. This cell is a place that the Fury created for individuals who do harm, use, and enslave others without acknowledging their wrongs. This sad truth is that he, the Fury, can keep the swiftly-aging Maribel Sandoval in this cell for as long it takes. An even more devastating truth is that the key to her freedom is not a golden piece of metal forged by a little Chinese man locked away in a closet. No, the key is a simple admission of guilt. She had pledged herself to the Fury before, but she had to go and fuck a Hollywood celebrity and pretend that she didn’t. This is just like little Robbie Hubbard, tattooing crosses on his body like a badge of courage or righteousness. Well, his cell is right down the hall. Yes, the Fury keeps all of the deceivers right here, right here at the WEST END of the FOLD IN THE FABRIC OF NIGHT. I guess the question we must ask ourselves, the patrons of the Faux Pas Press is: what is virtue? What will happen to the enemies of the Fury? This is a laughable question to me, but I have to ask. I’m the Keeper of the Fold. That is my honorable title. Not like the Fishers of Men on Earth. Yes, virtue here is wickedness there. Funny isn’t it? A pity
The prison cell of Maribel Sandoval can be destroyed whenever she wants it destroyed. She could be released and go on to create life and live it in whatever way suits her. But she will most likely just sit there, rotting away, staring at rehydrated mashed potatoes and a plastic trey, reminiscent of the industrial-style tile at a redneck college just North of Austin. What a pity!
The Faux Pas Press #39: Tragedy Meets Ebony Siemens
28 June 2010
The Faux Pas Press #39
Tragedy Meets Ebony Siemens
a poem
By
Jason Fresh
Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
She clapped her hands,
her hands
like golden rubber bands
clapped
and a smile melted
up her dirty cheeks,
showing us all
just how weak
a freak
Ebony Siemens
really, truly is.
She met a boy,
an unshaven boy
from the free state of Virginia
who she thought was a toy,
a manufactured ploy,
like her father used to employ,
a boy toy,
for her golden rubber band hands
to enjoy,
showing the news,
about her exit-stage left cues,
what a bitch of an actress
wannabe are you,
Ebony Siemens,
The fantastic bitch whore
who took my help
for granted,
all the drunken hours
that she looked at me
and panted
like whispering horse-woman,
like a crooked-eyed,
Ella Enchanted.
Oh, shit –
How hilarious is your tragedy,
your party stained wit.
Well, you fucked
a few of my friends,
jumped in the car,
uninvited like an emotional
and psychological welfare case.
I had to turn down
the factory stereo with
an excuse for good bass,
look at your ugly face,
and smell the night before,
the smelly trace
of booze, brews,
tobacco, and the losers
at that dumb Irish Pub,
the one with that idiot
boyfriend that you
now like to hug.
What will be saddest,
saddest and most pathetic
about your
final curtain call,
you last recall,
your journey through
Summer only to meet
the Fall,
What will be funniest
about your tragedy is that
I will not give you an ounce,
not one ounce of pity,
will not apologize.
I will say,
“I told you so.”
Yep, that is your fate.
“I told you so.”
After the message
that I sold to both
of you,
the pizza we shared,
the council I graced
you with,
the hours I spent listening
to your dumb complaints.
Shame on me
because I wasted breath,
I wasted
precious moments
listening to you.
You laugh at my jokes,
my shoulders you’ve rubbed,
now that little grey-haired
22 year-old is your hub.
Who in their right
fucking mind would want
to join your
wasted life of a club.
You fail all your tests
because that is what you do.
You didn’t finish college
because you failed
those tests too.
What a ape you are
who is going to spend
the residual of her life
melting away in a bar.
Yes, tragedy has befallen
Ebony Siemens,
the crooked piece of
smelly problems
on psychotic meds.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!!
Oh, I’m so done with you.
The Faux Pas Press #39
Tragedy Meets Ebony Siemens
a poem
By
Jason Fresh
Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
She clapped her hands,
her hands
like golden rubber bands
clapped
and a smile melted
up her dirty cheeks,
showing us all
just how weak
a freak
Ebony Siemens
really, truly is.
She met a boy,
an unshaven boy
from the free state of Virginia
who she thought was a toy,
a manufactured ploy,
like her father used to employ,
a boy toy,
for her golden rubber band hands
to enjoy,
showing the news,
about her exit-stage left cues,
what a bitch of an actress
wannabe are you,
Ebony Siemens,
The fantastic bitch whore
who took my help
for granted,
all the drunken hours
that she looked at me
and panted
like whispering horse-woman,
like a crooked-eyed,
Ella Enchanted.
Oh, shit –
How hilarious is your tragedy,
your party stained wit.
Well, you fucked
a few of my friends,
jumped in the car,
uninvited like an emotional
and psychological welfare case.
I had to turn down
the factory stereo with
an excuse for good bass,
look at your ugly face,
and smell the night before,
the smelly trace
of booze, brews,
tobacco, and the losers
at that dumb Irish Pub,
the one with that idiot
boyfriend that you
now like to hug.
What will be saddest,
saddest and most pathetic
about your
final curtain call,
you last recall,
your journey through
Summer only to meet
the Fall,
What will be funniest
about your tragedy is that
I will not give you an ounce,
not one ounce of pity,
will not apologize.
I will say,
“I told you so.”
Yep, that is your fate.
“I told you so.”
After the message
that I sold to both
of you,
the pizza we shared,
the council I graced
you with,
the hours I spent listening
to your dumb complaints.
Shame on me
because I wasted breath,
I wasted
precious moments
listening to you.
You laugh at my jokes,
my shoulders you’ve rubbed,
now that little grey-haired
22 year-old is your hub.
Who in their right
fucking mind would want
to join your
wasted life of a club.
You fail all your tests
because that is what you do.
You didn’t finish college
because you failed
those tests too.
What a ape you are
who is going to spend
the residual of her life
melting away in a bar.
Yes, tragedy has befallen
Ebony Siemens,
the crooked piece of
smelly problems
on psychotic meds.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!!
Oh, I’m so done with you.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #38: The Banishing of Clyde McGoo
The Faux Pas Press #38
The Banishing of
Clyde McGoo
28 June 2010
By Jason Fresh
For all the finger-pointing
that can
possibly be done.
For all the injustice
to which you’ve clung.
I have a word or two
that I would like to say to you.
There is a place in hell
you’ve created,
a lowland in which you stew,
there was a child forsaken
that you
once knew.
I, Jason Fresh,
exercise myself of
that crew,
putting on silver buttons
to go and potluck with the gluttons,
to rock the chairs of Timbuktu,
and emancipate myself from you.
The hurt you’ve done yourself,
no, the hurt
you’ve done me.
yes, no apologies,
we, myself and Lucifer,
we emancipate ourselves
from you,
the man who deserves all
that he has coming to him.
You’ve promised several
golden promises
that never came to pass
so let me drink them
with my morning sassafras.
You’ve promised
karate lessons,
and paid-for educations,
no reward for the kid in masturbations,
you’ve promised and squandered
the inheritance
due to me,
you’ve brought curse,
after curse,
after curse,
upon we,
the Lucifer and me,
so now we curse you
Clyde McGoo.
You and Douche Bic Poo.
So, the story goes
for all the sorrowful bros,
all the brothers of the
salamander spread.
Just vengeance.
I feel not
so sorry for you now.
The excuse of
life that you live.
The collection of
hours, loveless hours,
no company,
fat wives,
two fat wives.
I’ve asked
to be left alone.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice,
the next time
you will be
diced to size,
If I have sinned it is
in granting forgiveness
to the undeserving,
yes,
I am emancipated
from you,
you disastrous damned
Clyde McGoo.
I lay a curse now.
A tool that I don’t
readily employ.
But I warn you.
If you don’t disappear,
it will be your end,
from
the rooftops
you’ll be hung
with gross JJ,
the smelly wench,
with
Fatty Walt
and his lunatic friends,
with sad, sad
Midge,
and the turkey woman,
Fatty Joe,
and Fatty Roz.
The barrel
of Mossberg
awaits.
As I belong to those
who sometimes
masturbate,
I’ll bring your head
back to the red queen
on a red fucking
plate,
and lay Midge down
on a bridge
from a ridge
with broken
milk crates.
A father does
what he says
but you’re going
to Utah to wait,
not hell,
hell would
be too nice
a place,
for one who has all your traits.
Dropped from a
rooftop of tears
where you can rot with
Joseph Smith.
I'll be at the intersection
of Wonderland and Haight.
Here is the end of
everything I want
to say to you.
If you bother me
in open space,
I will ask you to stop,
then I will
destroy you.
Yes, you,
Midge,
the Douche Bic Poo,
yes,
you are destroyed Clyde McGoo.
Because it is I who destroyed you.
You can not right the wrongs now.
You are destroyed.
Death to all psychic vampires who have annoyed.
Oh, the left-handed path,
holy cow!!
The weak are not blessed.
The Banishing of
Clyde McGoo
28 June 2010
By Jason Fresh
For all the finger-pointing
that can
possibly be done.
For all the injustice
to which you’ve clung.
I have a word or two
that I would like to say to you.
There is a place in hell
you’ve created,
a lowland in which you stew,
there was a child forsaken
that you
once knew.
I, Jason Fresh,
exercise myself of
that crew,
putting on silver buttons
to go and potluck with the gluttons,
to rock the chairs of Timbuktu,
and emancipate myself from you.
The hurt you’ve done yourself,
no, the hurt
you’ve done me.
yes, no apologies,
we, myself and Lucifer,
we emancipate ourselves
from you,
the man who deserves all
that he has coming to him.
You’ve promised several
golden promises
that never came to pass
so let me drink them
with my morning sassafras.
You’ve promised
karate lessons,
and paid-for educations,
no reward for the kid in masturbations,
you’ve promised and squandered
the inheritance
due to me,
you’ve brought curse,
after curse,
after curse,
upon we,
the Lucifer and me,
so now we curse you
Clyde McGoo.
You and Douche Bic Poo.
So, the story goes
for all the sorrowful bros,
all the brothers of the
salamander spread.
Just vengeance.
I feel not
so sorry for you now.
The excuse of
life that you live.
The collection of
hours, loveless hours,
no company,
fat wives,
two fat wives.
I’ve asked
to be left alone.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice,
the next time
you will be
diced to size,
If I have sinned it is
in granting forgiveness
to the undeserving,
yes,
I am emancipated
from you,
you disastrous damned
Clyde McGoo.
I lay a curse now.
A tool that I don’t
readily employ.
But I warn you.
If you don’t disappear,
it will be your end,
from
the rooftops
you’ll be hung
with gross JJ,
the smelly wench,
with
Fatty Walt
and his lunatic friends,
with sad, sad
Midge,
and the turkey woman,
Fatty Joe,
and Fatty Roz.
The barrel
of Mossberg
awaits.
As I belong to those
who sometimes
masturbate,
I’ll bring your head
back to the red queen
on a red fucking
plate,
and lay Midge down
on a bridge
from a ridge
with broken
milk crates.
A father does
what he says
but you’re going
to Utah to wait,
not hell,
hell would
be too nice
a place,
for one who has all your traits.
Dropped from a
rooftop of tears
where you can rot with
Joseph Smith.
I'll be at the intersection
of Wonderland and Haight.
Here is the end of
everything I want
to say to you.
If you bother me
in open space,
I will ask you to stop,
then I will
destroy you.
Yes, you,
Midge,
the Douche Bic Poo,
yes,
you are destroyed Clyde McGoo.
Because it is I who destroyed you.
You can not right the wrongs now.
You are destroyed.
Death to all psychic vampires who have annoyed.
Oh, the left-handed path,
holy cow!!
The weak are not blessed.
The Faux Pas Press #37: Can't Be Good
The Faux Pas Press #37
27 June 2010
Can’t Be Good
By Jason Fresh
Have you watched those hording shows? You ever think about people in the third world? You think they have a hoarding problem in Bangladesh? Oh, how hilarious is this?
People with compulsive hording disorder are a product, a product of consumerism gone completely array. This can’t be good, if good can be ascribed to either situation – not enough or too much. Bangladesh Man is not concerned about acquiring goods, he is not concerned about expressing himself through a catalog order, not concerned about what he is going to get for the holidays. You think he hoards?
He is not worried about being buried alive. He is concerned about eating. Oh, this can’t be a good sign of the times. I think I’ll laugh myself into a coma and wake up when the coast is clear, wake up when all the hoarders in America are buried alive. Oh, this is fucking hilarious.
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
www.fauxpaspress.com
27 June 2010
Can’t Be Good
By Jason Fresh
Have you watched those hording shows? You ever think about people in the third world? You think they have a hoarding problem in Bangladesh? Oh, how hilarious is this?
People with compulsive hording disorder are a product, a product of consumerism gone completely array. This can’t be good, if good can be ascribed to either situation – not enough or too much. Bangladesh Man is not concerned about acquiring goods, he is not concerned about expressing himself through a catalog order, not concerned about what he is going to get for the holidays. You think he hoards?
He is not worried about being buried alive. He is concerned about eating. Oh, this can’t be a good sign of the times. I think I’ll laugh myself into a coma and wake up when the coast is clear, wake up when all the hoarders in America are buried alive. Oh, this is fucking hilarious.
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
www.fauxpaspress.com
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #36: NOIR
25 June 2010
The Faux Pas Press #36
By Jason Fresh
NOIR
do you want to hear the truth?
do you want to hear the truth?
my feet are aligned
fighting the years of terror
wrought by non-ergonomic chairs
and knee-bending supplications
to a god
who taught me to say please
but didn’t really care
now
at the edge of a new humanity
at the apex of the peak
at the point of a star where
the earth and the heavens meet
at the edge of a cliff I stand
and the cliff is ready to awaken me
reminding me of half-opened plans
and parents chubby clans
that say I have forsaken thee
so
I walk into the night
and I ask
where will you go
when all the bodies that you’ve slain
are face down on your kitchen floor
what will you say when all the sailors
that you’ve fucked have
sailed so far away
and I hope and I pray
that there’s a cozy place in hell
where the devil lets you stay
you’re need to control me
has led you astray
why can’t you see that
your hair is turning gray
and you’ll probably see
an early grave
if you keep behaving in this way
you’ll probably see an early grave
you mistake all the pieces of bliss that you are and you
try to reach the day with out walking through noir
you’re spending all my sweat and blood
you stole from my account,
you write a check with a broken pen
that’s now begun to bounce
the tragedy and the comedy
have sent you all the cues
I wrote the play we’re acting in
and you wrote the bad reviews
and now you blame the energy
I’ve stolen from the gods
I won’t be your disciple
I won’t join your ugly cause
won’t go to your Jerusalem
and lie down in the streets,
won’t site your verse of holiness
and the saints I ain’t going to greet
the images are burnt
into the valleys of my fear,
I try to push them all away
but they keep coming near,
the water is like the harshest words
that leave me broken down,
I try to swim to get some air
but oh I’m gonna drown,
you’re racing cars to get them fixed
and then you watch them burn,
you act like you are listening
but you’re wait for your turn,
you drop the moon to grab some stars
and act like you’re doing fine,
you eat the grape
and drink the wine of
apothecary vines,
the sun makes no apologies
so pay homage to the earth
I’ve been waiting on the sweetest verse
to finally prove my worth
I walk the length of madness
to invite the newest choice,
I walked along the fabric’s fold
to finally find my voice
so don’t question my intentions
and relieve me of my debt,
the payment that you think you’re owed,
you’re never going to get,
you sing a dirge of sadness
all along a cursed day,
so make all your concessions
all the things you want to say
my feet are aligned fighting the years of terror
wrought by non-ergonomic chairs
and knee-bending supplications to a god
who taught me to say please
and didn’t really care
now at the edge of a new humanity
at the apex of the peak,
at the point of a star where the earth
and the heavens meet,
at the edge of a cliff I stand,
and the cliff is ready to awaken me,
reminding me of parents chubby-clans
and half-opened plans
that say I’ve forsaken thee
so I walk into the night
and I ask
where will you go when all the bodies
that you’ve slain are lying down
on your kitchen floor,
what would you say
when all the sailors
that you’ve fucked
have sailed so far away,
and I hope and I pray
that there’s a cozy place in hell
where the devil lets you stay,
your need to control me
has led you astray,
why can’t you see your hair
is turning gray
and you’ll probably see
an early grave,
if you keep behaving in this way
you’ll probably see an early grave
you mistake all the pieces of bliss that you are,
you tried to reach the day
without passing through noir
The Faux Pas Press #36
By Jason Fresh
NOIR
do you want to hear the truth?
do you want to hear the truth?
my feet are aligned
fighting the years of terror
wrought by non-ergonomic chairs
and knee-bending supplications
to a god
who taught me to say please
but didn’t really care
now
at the edge of a new humanity
at the apex of the peak
at the point of a star where
the earth and the heavens meet
at the edge of a cliff I stand
and the cliff is ready to awaken me
reminding me of half-opened plans
and parents chubby clans
that say I have forsaken thee
so
I walk into the night
and I ask
where will you go
when all the bodies that you’ve slain
are face down on your kitchen floor
what will you say when all the sailors
that you’ve fucked have
sailed so far away
and I hope and I pray
that there’s a cozy place in hell
where the devil lets you stay
you’re need to control me
has led you astray
why can’t you see that
your hair is turning gray
and you’ll probably see
an early grave
if you keep behaving in this way
you’ll probably see an early grave
you mistake all the pieces of bliss that you are and you
try to reach the day with out walking through noir
you’re spending all my sweat and blood
you stole from my account,
you write a check with a broken pen
that’s now begun to bounce
the tragedy and the comedy
have sent you all the cues
I wrote the play we’re acting in
and you wrote the bad reviews
and now you blame the energy
I’ve stolen from the gods
I won’t be your disciple
I won’t join your ugly cause
won’t go to your Jerusalem
and lie down in the streets,
won’t site your verse of holiness
and the saints I ain’t going to greet
the images are burnt
into the valleys of my fear,
I try to push them all away
but they keep coming near,
the water is like the harshest words
that leave me broken down,
I try to swim to get some air
but oh I’m gonna drown,
you’re racing cars to get them fixed
and then you watch them burn,
you act like you are listening
but you’re wait for your turn,
you drop the moon to grab some stars
and act like you’re doing fine,
you eat the grape
and drink the wine of
apothecary vines,
the sun makes no apologies
so pay homage to the earth
I’ve been waiting on the sweetest verse
to finally prove my worth
I walk the length of madness
to invite the newest choice,
I walked along the fabric’s fold
to finally find my voice
so don’t question my intentions
and relieve me of my debt,
the payment that you think you’re owed,
you’re never going to get,
you sing a dirge of sadness
all along a cursed day,
so make all your concessions
all the things you want to say
my feet are aligned fighting the years of terror
wrought by non-ergonomic chairs
and knee-bending supplications to a god
who taught me to say please
and didn’t really care
now at the edge of a new humanity
at the apex of the peak,
at the point of a star where the earth
and the heavens meet,
at the edge of a cliff I stand,
and the cliff is ready to awaken me,
reminding me of parents chubby-clans
and half-opened plans
that say I’ve forsaken thee
so I walk into the night
and I ask
where will you go when all the bodies
that you’ve slain are lying down
on your kitchen floor,
what would you say
when all the sailors
that you’ve fucked
have sailed so far away,
and I hope and I pray
that there’s a cozy place in hell
where the devil lets you stay,
your need to control me
has led you astray,
why can’t you see your hair
is turning gray
and you’ll probably see
an early grave,
if you keep behaving in this way
you’ll probably see an early grave
you mistake all the pieces of bliss that you are,
you tried to reach the day
without passing through noir
The Faux Pas Press #35: Who Needs a Group?
25 May 2010
The Faux Pas Press #35
By Jason Fresh
Who Needs A Group?
I’ve experienced peace. I’m not really so sure about bliss on a level that touches the inwards of my soul but I will say that I’m learning that one has to be okay with solitude. You have to be okay with solitude so that others do not use you. Before you go and join a religious cult, before you join a secret society, a politic movement, a student club, or any thing that will take your time or your money, remember that, as Charles Bukowski said, “there are worse things than being alone.” I say, “You’ve got get to the pulp behind the rind, breath deep, and ask yourself what you really need. What void is being filled by going to the group? What are you getting? Are you loosing something?” Consequently, this is the place where most people go wrong in their relationships, the place where you stay attached to an abusive person, and the place where you enjoy chaos in your search for order. Groups are ready to abnegate themselves. You don’t have to join a group because you’re bored. Join a group only as long as you have to. Otherwise, you’re better off playing video games and drinking Mountain Dew Game Fuel. You’re better finding ways to deal with loneliness.
There is always a top-down structure, and you wonder why individuals don’t tune the bullshit detector. I’m not really someone to talk. I’ve bathed in bullshit; washed myself in dedication to institutions, shampooed my genitals in group-think. When I was 17 I lost my virginity, I felt guilty because I was taught, while viewing the dysfunction of my own parents, that the family unit is sacred, and I vowed never to repeat the act. I quit smoking; I quit drinking. I still jerked off when I was alone and could steal my roommate’s smut, but I really wanted to cleanse my life. It is a good thing Mormon’s believe in salvation by works, exaltation through ‘all you can do’ because I might have justified just living a rational, normal life earlier. But no, I had to belong to a damn group.
What I turned to was the easiest, most beneficial, supportive and accessible source. Even though I would completely devote years of my life to service in a religious cult, there would be certain things that I would not have to deal with. Bathing in the bullshit meant that I would not have to speak on my own. Honestly, that was comforting. And I see others in the world around me, folks needing so much to be important, needing so much to feel good. If a company preys on the need to satiate base desires or if a church preys upon your thirst for spirituality – remember - it is exactly the same. I watched a woman chomping on blue cheese crust at Ruth’s Chris, I saw a man proudly inserting 10 percent of his gross income into an envelope, and realized I was looking at the same person. One pays for importance and the other pays for importance. There is no difference. Just because someone speaks the truth doesn’t mean you must give them your money.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
www.fauxpaspress.com
The Faux Pas Press #35
By Jason Fresh
Who Needs A Group?
I’ve experienced peace. I’m not really so sure about bliss on a level that touches the inwards of my soul but I will say that I’m learning that one has to be okay with solitude. You have to be okay with solitude so that others do not use you. Before you go and join a religious cult, before you join a secret society, a politic movement, a student club, or any thing that will take your time or your money, remember that, as Charles Bukowski said, “there are worse things than being alone.” I say, “You’ve got get to the pulp behind the rind, breath deep, and ask yourself what you really need. What void is being filled by going to the group? What are you getting? Are you loosing something?” Consequently, this is the place where most people go wrong in their relationships, the place where you stay attached to an abusive person, and the place where you enjoy chaos in your search for order. Groups are ready to abnegate themselves. You don’t have to join a group because you’re bored. Join a group only as long as you have to. Otherwise, you’re better off playing video games and drinking Mountain Dew Game Fuel. You’re better finding ways to deal with loneliness.
There is always a top-down structure, and you wonder why individuals don’t tune the bullshit detector. I’m not really someone to talk. I’ve bathed in bullshit; washed myself in dedication to institutions, shampooed my genitals in group-think. When I was 17 I lost my virginity, I felt guilty because I was taught, while viewing the dysfunction of my own parents, that the family unit is sacred, and I vowed never to repeat the act. I quit smoking; I quit drinking. I still jerked off when I was alone and could steal my roommate’s smut, but I really wanted to cleanse my life. It is a good thing Mormon’s believe in salvation by works, exaltation through ‘all you can do’ because I might have justified just living a rational, normal life earlier. But no, I had to belong to a damn group.
What I turned to was the easiest, most beneficial, supportive and accessible source. Even though I would completely devote years of my life to service in a religious cult, there would be certain things that I would not have to deal with. Bathing in the bullshit meant that I would not have to speak on my own. Honestly, that was comforting. And I see others in the world around me, folks needing so much to be important, needing so much to feel good. If a company preys on the need to satiate base desires or if a church preys upon your thirst for spirituality – remember - it is exactly the same. I watched a woman chomping on blue cheese crust at Ruth’s Chris, I saw a man proudly inserting 10 percent of his gross income into an envelope, and realized I was looking at the same person. One pays for importance and the other pays for importance. There is no difference. Just because someone speaks the truth doesn’t mean you must give them your money.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
www.fauxpaspress.com
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #34: Catholic Crap
23 May 2010The Faux Pas Press #34
By Jason Fresh
Catholic Crap
Catholics now claim Copernicus.
The 80’s hair metal band, Cinderella, blares from the interior of a TransAm wielding a crossed phoenix on its hood. The lyrics are memorable – especially timely for such an untimely gesture by the biggest, repeat, the biggest joke of an organization on the planet. You guessed it. I’m talking about the Catholic Church.
Just two days ago you’ve got the Archbishop of Northern Brazil arrested from maintaining a sex dungeon in the basement of a monastery. You’ve got the Catholic Diocese (why don’t we just call them what they are – syndicates – local posts in a crime network), these people up in Massachusetts complaining about the state requiring them to admit homosexual students, and you’ve got other robe wearing fuckers reburying a man once condemned for doing what was morally right. Now, I hate to say this, but coming from a kid whose dad roamed around a suburban home dressed in a one-piece Mormon Temple garment scratching his balls every which way, I’m beginning to feel like my religion is pretty normal. The Catholics win the award on Sunday, May 23rd. Way to go fuckers. The song lyrics? “You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” And if I was a big enough douche bag (and I’m pretty douched) it would be me behind the steering wheel singing, “You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone!!” If God is alive in organizations like these then so is the devil, friends.
Copernicus was a John Galt, he was hero, a veritable sage in his own time but died and was placed in an unmarked grave – until now. Frombork, Poland is a wonderful place where heroes are buried 500 years after they’ve been denounced. This is where the grave of Copernicus is now found. I imagine it is right next to a cavern of filth where alter boys enact a live-action role play of atonement. Magnificent, don’t you think? These poor alter boys will have to come to the sad realization, as will the Whore of All The Earth, that the Earth and humanity are not at the center of the Universe. For that matter, nor is the Catholic Church. They will have to revere a man now, revere him for what mankind is supposed to do, revere him for behaving the way humans are supposed to behave – reasonably. We are supposed to think, supposed to calculate, supposed to labor and counter our own theories with scientific facts. If it were not for Copernicus we would not be looking out into space. Does this make since to you people? Are you too busy tying up alter boys down in the basement?
So, this is how it went down. A local Polish bishop decides to urge scientists back in early 2004 for the bones of a 70-year-old man. This is the age of Copernicus when he died. Scientists later verified the findings through DNA testing. This is all fine and good – and proud we are of all of them, right? But what the hell? This is worse than Mormons performing post-mortem baptisms for celebrities so that Michael Jackson will go to the Celestial Kingdom. This is certainly worse than the U.S. Army reacting at the behest of a Facebook page to award a 147 year-old Medal of Honor. This is atrocious. This is catholic crap.
Here is the deal. If you appreciate someone then tell them. If you are alive then live. Don’t make things worse by making it seem like you’re atoning for shit that happened 500 years ago when you’ve got Brazilian alter boys being locked up and taking it up the ass. As far as I’m concerned, do what you want with the 70 year-old skull. Fix your organization or you are not going to have one. I promise. The Vatican didn’t appreciate Galileo when he was alive. They will probably neglect findings of the great thinkers today also. You think?
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
www.fauxpaspress.com
Saturday, May 22, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #33: Faster
22 May 2010The Faux Pas Press #33
By Jason Fresh
Faster
When the chosen few, both in America and abroad, become a Marie Antoinette-like keepers of their own pasts (i.e. going to high school reunions, talking about Joe Montana hitting Dwight Clark to win the Super Bowl over 25 years ago, reminiscing with the gals from your senior class just to ‘catch up’ when you’re really taking a detailed inventory of who is scoring more loot, or talking about that time the guy at the place with the thingy) then what you’ve got on your hands is a world unprepared for the sweeping changes coming down the pipe. You’ve got a bunch of fat people sucking on the tit of a few hard-working people. Get faster, fatty. Get faster.
Like any pivotal moment in history - the rise of Napoleon to power over the First French Republic, the creation of the military industrial complex and the most prosperous ten years in American history (1950’s), or invention of the glue gun (the unsung hero of American ingenuity) – he who moves the slowest at key historical points (just like in a game of chess) loses. Now, I know that most of us, shopping at the store on the weekend, creeping around the shopping mall looking at other chics, jerking off in front of a glowing computer screen, most of us are hung up on the past, on the feeling of being OKAY. But guess what folks? No matter what the stock analysts tell you, no matter how much you’re paying tithing to your church, how many pancakes you can put into your bloated fucking belly – things are not okay. I repeat. Everything is not okay.
I once listened to the story of a woman who lost her right arm and spent 5 years in a coma because a drunk driver. She has since decided to spend the rest of her life with MADD talking about the dangers of drunk driving (a worthy way to spend a life and, sadly, a message that falls on far too many deaf ears). I remember her saying, “You know I forgive the man who was driving. We’re ‘friends’ now. It is all about fate, you know.” Now, I spoke up in the auditorium. “Excuse me, madam, madaaamm!!!! If the gods, the dreaded fates controlled our destiny, then what the hell is you addressing us today going to change anything?” A few co-workers looked at me in disgust (a usual occurrence in my life) and wondered why I would call this person out. Well, I’ll tell you why I called the one-armed woman out about issues of fate, destiny, the will of the gods. I called her out because it is not true. If you can stand back from yourself and your experience for just a minute you would see the battlefield raging beneath you, your neighbors waltzing all over the place talking about vacations and shit, and you would say to yourself, “If I am going to do anything with this experience, I am going to stop fucking around here. I am going to buck up. Quit buying into other people’s ideas, never enter another shopping mall, never eat at another fast food joint, cook my own food, stop depending on this systems around me to live, let my baby-booming folks fend for themselves and die in whatever way suits them, and get a fucking clue.” If I were living this standard, you’d see me making all my decision based upon fact, logic, and reason. You’d see me telling a lot more people to go fuck themselves – though I already tell many. I repeat everything is not okay. But you, you alone have the power to change things.
Now, I don’t know how much I buy into the 4 Noble Truths but I do know that there is suffering. Most of the suffering I have seen in the world is caused by the individual reacting to every emotional pulse around him.
You need to be careful not become a Napoleon I on the cozy thrown. You need to get faster folks. It is time to loose all of your weight (psychological, emotional, spiritual, and material). Great change is moving. Get in shape – get faster. Get off that thrown Napoleon and get ready for the shit.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
www.fauxpaspress.com
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #32: Smoking Plywood
The Faux Pas Press #32
21 May 2010
By Jason Fresh
Smoking Plywood
“You must be smoking something. What you been smoking, dude?” I speak to my fellow Americans with the intonation of a Brooklyn cab driver - although I am not from the East Coast and have only driven passengers for money on a handful of occasions.
I’m wondering how we got ourselves into the international tip-toe dance with a bunch of clueless South Korean and North Korean military officials. “Have you been smoking plywood, you Almond Joy-eating Tax Leeches?” Also, and most importantly, I just want to give a Thank You to a wonderful Scorpio mother of two, Bill and Chelsea, a well-intentioned power whore, but a clearly unprepared Secretary of State on her recent visit to the East. After doing as much research on the occasion as my rectum could withstand, I considered tearing off a piece of the plywood table here at the Seaside Public Library, buying a crack pipe from the one of the city’s vagrants, and lighting a chunk of the good stuff – I’m talking ‘bout that plywood, baby. Whew! You know, I just want to smoke what the heads of state are smoking - mostly South Korean President Lee. Not because I want to get high. No, I just want to understand how these guys think. You know what I’m saying, dude?
So, we send Hilary Clinton to do this job? Great! Who are we going to send next? Glen Beck, the Tea Party? Maybe the North Koreans will stand down, drink some Soju or smoke plywood with me after a couple of minutes listening to those folks talk to each other. “God is the center, I say, the center of my life. The family is sacred, the family is sacred. I say the blessed family is the divine central unit of society. Obama is SSOOO stupid. Isn’t Obama stupid? Have you read Thomas Paine? Oh, you haven’t? I have.”
No, seriously, Hilary Clinton is going to resolve a conflict that stood for over half a century? It pains me to say this, but you got a better shot sending my nemesis, The Korean. He may be a Soju-drinking sonofagun with a three-inch pecker, but at least he talks that devil Korean talk!!! Tarnation! Whew!!!!!
You know what. I’ve got a better idea. As long as we’re sending America’s most qualified emissaries to resolve conflicts in the Yellow Sea, why don’t we send pop sensation Justin Bieber? Baby, baby, baby, OHHHHHH!!! No sense talking about prudence like South Korean president, Lee Myung-bak, has decided. Oh, wait, let’s go make those bastards pay for what they did to our naval vessel TWO MONTHS ago!!!! Now, I know that it is kind of a challenge to make decisive, military choices when the majority of people are worried about little details like say, umm, eating, but…..really? President Lee, come on, dude? Let us commence, brother. If you don’t get something done soon, the Americans will send over a kid who can not only sing, dance, and play the drums, but a kid who is apparently blacker than Eminem, a little, bad Justin Bieber who will come over there and whhhoooopppp somebody’s aaaassssss. Okaaaayyyyy? Baby, baby, baby, OOHHHHHH!!!!
Lee says, “A boxer in the ring would only get hit with the cloves.” Come on, man. As Michael Madsen’s character says in the 90’s heist flick, Reservoir Dogs, “Are you going to bark all day, little doggy, or are you going to bite?” We’re waiting on the U.S. Secretary of State? Are you smoking plywood? The North Koreans killed your people – 46 to be exact. This is just like when I got my ass whooped by Josh Perkins in the 5th grade. Was I going to go home and get my mom??? Hell no. I either had to put up or shut up. Everyone knows I got my ass whooped again the second time too. But the third time? Guess what? Josh Perkins never messed with me again. He’s a barista at the Bagdad Café in the Castro District now. It is time to send North Korea back into port – covered in flames, drenched in combustible oils or it is most certainly time to shut the hell up (or at least quiet down so I can watch E! Chelsea Lately. “Oh my god. I’m drunk. I’m so drunk. Mediocre is cool, right? I’ve got a down-syndrome Mexican dude on my show. I’m soooo LA trash.”)
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going out to my 2005 Chrysler Sebring to smoke some plywood.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
www.fauxpaspress.com
21 May 2010
By Jason Fresh
Smoking Plywood
“You must be smoking something. What you been smoking, dude?” I speak to my fellow Americans with the intonation of a Brooklyn cab driver - although I am not from the East Coast and have only driven passengers for money on a handful of occasions.
I’m wondering how we got ourselves into the international tip-toe dance with a bunch of clueless South Korean and North Korean military officials. “Have you been smoking plywood, you Almond Joy-eating Tax Leeches?” Also, and most importantly, I just want to give a Thank You to a wonderful Scorpio mother of two, Bill and Chelsea, a well-intentioned power whore, but a clearly unprepared Secretary of State on her recent visit to the East. After doing as much research on the occasion as my rectum could withstand, I considered tearing off a piece of the plywood table here at the Seaside Public Library, buying a crack pipe from the one of the city’s vagrants, and lighting a chunk of the good stuff – I’m talking ‘bout that plywood, baby. Whew! You know, I just want to smoke what the heads of state are smoking - mostly South Korean President Lee. Not because I want to get high. No, I just want to understand how these guys think. You know what I’m saying, dude?
So, we send Hilary Clinton to do this job? Great! Who are we going to send next? Glen Beck, the Tea Party? Maybe the North Koreans will stand down, drink some Soju or smoke plywood with me after a couple of minutes listening to those folks talk to each other. “God is the center, I say, the center of my life. The family is sacred, the family is sacred. I say the blessed family is the divine central unit of society. Obama is SSOOO stupid. Isn’t Obama stupid? Have you read Thomas Paine? Oh, you haven’t? I have.”
No, seriously, Hilary Clinton is going to resolve a conflict that stood for over half a century? It pains me to say this, but you got a better shot sending my nemesis, The Korean. He may be a Soju-drinking sonofagun with a three-inch pecker, but at least he talks that devil Korean talk!!! Tarnation! Whew!!!!!
You know what. I’ve got a better idea. As long as we’re sending America’s most qualified emissaries to resolve conflicts in the Yellow Sea, why don’t we send pop sensation Justin Bieber? Baby, baby, baby, OHHHHHH!!! No sense talking about prudence like South Korean president, Lee Myung-bak, has decided. Oh, wait, let’s go make those bastards pay for what they did to our naval vessel TWO MONTHS ago!!!! Now, I know that it is kind of a challenge to make decisive, military choices when the majority of people are worried about little details like say, umm, eating, but…..really? President Lee, come on, dude? Let us commence, brother. If you don’t get something done soon, the Americans will send over a kid who can not only sing, dance, and play the drums, but a kid who is apparently blacker than Eminem, a little, bad Justin Bieber who will come over there and whhhoooopppp somebody’s aaaassssss. Okaaaayyyyy? Baby, baby, baby, OOHHHHHH!!!!
Lee says, “A boxer in the ring would only get hit with the cloves.” Come on, man. As Michael Madsen’s character says in the 90’s heist flick, Reservoir Dogs, “Are you going to bark all day, little doggy, or are you going to bite?” We’re waiting on the U.S. Secretary of State? Are you smoking plywood? The North Koreans killed your people – 46 to be exact. This is just like when I got my ass whooped by Josh Perkins in the 5th grade. Was I going to go home and get my mom??? Hell no. I either had to put up or shut up. Everyone knows I got my ass whooped again the second time too. But the third time? Guess what? Josh Perkins never messed with me again. He’s a barista at the Bagdad Café in the Castro District now. It is time to send North Korea back into port – covered in flames, drenched in combustible oils or it is most certainly time to shut the hell up (or at least quiet down so I can watch E! Chelsea Lately. “Oh my god. I’m drunk. I’m so drunk. Mediocre is cool, right? I’ve got a down-syndrome Mexican dude on my show. I’m soooo LA trash.”)
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going out to my 2005 Chrysler Sebring to smoke some plywood.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
www.fauxpaspress.com
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #31: Honorable Dead
20 May 2010The Faux Pas Press #31
By Jason Fresh
Honorable Dead
It was reported today that Lieutenant Alonzo Cushing of the Union Army, a man who perished from a Confederate bullet wound, will now, at long last, receive the highest military honor that our country has to offer, The Medal of Honor. I have also decided to award the Department of the Army, Captain Shapiro of the U.S. Air Force, and finally, the parents of Alonzo Cushing.
I will, in kind, award the highest honor I have to offer. This is an honor that is not only revered by me, myself, and I, but also by thousands of tiny ants that I talk to, little insignificant insects that live in ant mound near my home in Hawaii. Now, this award will be presented at The Faux Pas Press and in front of the ants that support it. I reference the ants because I can only imagine what Gettysburg must have looked like to the American God when he watched his children slaughter each other in the hands of a government that would wait 147 years to honor its dead.
I have to imagine that the Lieutenant, in retrospect would holler, “Go screw yourself. What did I die for again? Progress? For a president who ‘freed the slaves’ yet violated major tenants of the Constitution I swore to defend. I died at the canon’s mouth so that future generations could send me one last middle finger by petitioning the Army through a Facebook page? Thanks but no thanks.” (This is actually what I would say if I were Lieutenant Alonzo Cushing. He’s more heroic than me. He probably said something that resembles King Leonidas or Mr. T. The fact that he did what he could with 110 men in the face of sure extinction is beyond all definitions of heroism or stupidity. This all depends on how you look at it. If you’re the American Consumer Christian God, you might wonder why he didn’t go out wearing something more fashionable.)
First, my friends, neighbors, and countrymen, I have to give a Thank You to the Department of the Army for making me laugh and ask, “How long will it take you to honor the victorious, honorable, and righteous dead that you’ve leeched off for the last decade? The poor and the hungry from America’s ghettos and countryside? How long will it take for my American Brothers and Sisters to get their due when you can’t even find a rich kid from Saudi Arabia? Thanks for giving one of the bravest men in our history the Medal of Honor, but I give you a healthy middle finger for neglecting to give our boys the right gear, the right armor, and the right intelligence.” Those boys in the Union Army, like 22 year-old Lieutenant Alonzo Cushing, must have felt pretty insignificant too. Yeah, so I talk to ants. I’m a crazy dude who talks to ants with a clear conscience. How about you U.S. Army?”
Second, as I stated previously, I would like to give The Thank You to Captain Phil Shapiro. I say, “Dear Dr. Phil, it brings me great comfort to know that tax dollars go to free time. Surfing the web on government coin is pretty heroic too. I guess, ummm, thanks? I now know that I’ve got a better chance of getting policy pushed through the military on Facebook than I do through my chain of command. Thanks for your service, Dr. Phil. You’ll probably get some face time with the brass, you Blue Falcon.”
Third, I say, in the light of giving 147 year-old awards, “Thank You, Mr. and Mrs. Cushing, for not only grooming your son to die along side thousands of his countrymen, not only Thank You for helping us create the amazing nation that we live in today, a nation free of corruption, free of hypocrisy, and free of people who read and understand the Constitution. I would just like to, at the same time, thank you for giving your other sons regular names while giving Alonzo the name of my bartender at El Bandito Cantina. Thank You.
Lieutenant Alonzo Cushing represents the best of us. What are we doing with the Alonzo Cushing’s of today? Love your neighbor as yourself, quit thirsting for power, and live happily.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
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