Psychopaths

Howled in the night set the woods in flight
An insidious connection under construction
One by one she breaks the faces with intimacy
In velvet depths of self conspiracy
Cowboys need Cowgirls
Reigning dominance
Splinters pierce flesh, biting to bone
In bodiless bliss of visceral serenity
Binding tongue n grove stapled shut
Disobeying instinct for selfless pleasure
No longer the prince, white water washes all to blackness...


This was a fun late night duet poem that Oney and I went line for line to create.  Hope you enjoy.

Flip Flops are for...

Flip Flops…
…are for Ninjas and Badasses

There are very few times in a rational human’s life when they see fit to change opinion due to monumental intervention by those we choose to let enter our lives.  Up until such moments, we have our opinions and they usually do not budge.  I’ve always had a disdain for Flip Flops. Just hearing the “Flip Flop Flip Flop Flip Flop…” drove me up the fucking wall, ex-girlfriend kind of crazy.  These sacks of shit that chose to adorn their feet with these obnoxious forms of foot “protection” would show up to work in the goddamned things!  I once told one of my employees that if he showed up to work in them again I would fire him…and that I did.

Now as far as my change in opinion goes… I met Ian Holmes in the high Andean mountains of Peru while I was slitting the throat of a fluffy white sheep that I purchased from a local Indian on the reserve that we were camped at.  I didn’t want to take the claustrophobic cambi ride back into town so I negotiated the murder of one of these tasty treats for 40 soles in order to prolong my stay in the mountains.  Mr. Holmes was accompanied by Bobby Taylor, who was overtaken a few days earlier by a next-to-death sickness, more than likely acquired by ingesting fecal matter from one of the local street vendors’ asses.  Personal hygiene is not exactly what the Peruvians are known best for.  These two Canadians put their mountain climbing adventure on hold and joined us in the development of boulder problems in the Hatun Machay region to let Mr. Taylor recover from his sudden illness.  A strong friendship formed quickly since we were the only white people around and the local hostility pushed us to join forces against their racism.  In my travels, I have met many Canadians and my opinion of them was on the fence.  These two silly fucking Snow Mexicans were dead set on changing my mixed views of their beady-eyed people.  It would be almost a year later when I decided to pay them a visit.

I arrived in Calgary around 4am greeted by Mr. Holmes.  Always wearing a large grin, he informed me that we would be training our asses off for the next two weeks.  Weights, climbing, running, swimming and anything else we could get ourselves into.  Settling into the small apartment of the humble Holmes, I took my shoes off and noticed a pair of what used to be neon orange flip flops.  Again, I hate Flip Flops.  Not the product themselves, which I find quite comfy, but the idea of the sheer laziness that our culture adores them for.  Now upon closer inspection one could see that Mr. Holmes’ busted, dirty, sorry-ass excuse for Flip Flops had been quite literally curb stomped into submission.  These poor lil flaps of foam were far past their expiration date.  One of them had a strap that refused to stay in its grommet hole, but every time it refused to stay Ian would jam it back in and keep on flip flopping along.  Now a mucky dirty burnt orange collage of filth they stared up at me as I took their picture.  A thin sliver that had ripped itself into existence showed the cold tile beneath it as if to say “Please! Please kill me!”  Mr. Holmes would have none of this of course and it showed in his human form that he brutally stomped equally into submission, making the sad little Flippy Floppies look like his punk foot bitches.  After spending a few amazingly grueling training weeks with Mr. Holmes, I realized that if any one man on this earth had earned the right to wear Flip Flops, merely held together by scar tissue and rage, it was him. 

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P.S. Credit must be given where credit is deserved.  On my wonderfully adventurous trip to Snow Mexico there was yet another full-fledged certifiably badass motherfucker that without a doubt also earned this right…Bobby “The Rebel Maple” Taylor.  Bob and I ran down The Chief, a very large rock face that towers over Squamish BC,  after climbing it, passing numerous chuffers in full hiking attire…he was in Flip Flops sporting a full pack of traditional gear and a 70-meter rope wearing a Gym Jones shirt that said “Un-fuck your Head.”

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