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.
Monday, October 25, 2010
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.
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