Thursday, August 17, 2006 by Ben Myers
Tonight, before the sun sank down in Boston there were three seagulls squawking to each other in an upper alleyway where the old brick buildings juxtaposed themselves against the incandescent backdrop above. The seagulls seemed content, so I stopped and listened until the backdrop choked off and died into pencil lead. I started walking and noticed my socks felt like each fiber was dancing with radioactive cotton strands. I paid no mind at first.Soon I was hovering an inch above the ground and was moving past like a conveyer-belt. I went unnoticed -- and was at last invisible. Time shuddered and the cars passing turned into streams of light and the streams became shafts of light filtering through leaves shaped like praying hands.
I was no longer on a conveyer-belt but was lounging upside down with my feet clasped around a tree limb -- observing the world -- as a baboon -- clear enough to me that it was myself further back along the helix of time and being, two forces wrapped around each other and threaded through the universe like a French-braid. I was taking in the world through my monkey brain in an upside down jungle, ground overhead and void below.
Another baboon with a meaty face and flared nostrils descended from a nearby branch and observed me affectionately. She presented me a mashed banana and I took a handful and licked my fingers clean.
Savoring the mashed fruit on my palate, I closed my baboon eyelids and nodded off into Samadhi -- formless once again, familiar like warm bread, the feeling of oneself -- before conception.
I emerged on the other side of infinity. No fur, no flesh, no instincts. Just consciousness in a vacuum of ten-thousand erupting suns -- heaven and hell seemed insignificant from this vantage, and were…just opposite ends of the same spectrum.
But this here was the whole damn spectrum and the place it occupied. Before, through the reduction valve of the homosapien mind, existence could only be conceived of as linear, as if watched through a keyhole, but then the keyholes became windows in which greater portions could be seen at once and it soon became apparent the lines were parts of large curves. Then, the windows became doors in which the last vapors of myself stepped through, and the large curves revealed themselves as portions of a greater, singular circle. A vast cirlce bound through all phenomena like a flaming crown. And no longer was I observing. The question of my existence was rendered irrelevant.
The circle was a tube of blue flames with a marshmallow center of creamy clear light – and the center was everywhere at once.
And then the creamy clearness was the headlights of cars flowing past me, as I stood on the sidewalk in the pencil lead of Boston at dusk. I could taste the marshmallow with my frontal lobes and could have sworn I tasted banana in my mouth.
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Sunday, August 13, 2006 by Ben Myers
 2/23/83 - ?
The venerable Bob Mcgovern was a wise habitué of social gatherings with an aptitude for not giving a fuck, possessing considerable skills in crossing the double yellow lines without getting pulled over. His flagrant foolish infractions were masked by a skillful wit, and So. Co.. Like all free men, he was the naked, the mad, the scholar and the fool. Bless his heart, and his clandestine behavior of late. You see, Bob was proprietor of a special place on the internet super highway. He owned exclusive rights to a cyber-orgy of young writers and wackos; and used his internet abode to post the recent brain vomit of skillful scribes, thought puke of amateur freelancers, and intellectual spit-up of infantile contributors. All were viewed as equal in the eyes of Bob. Writing was flowing like lava from Vesuvius, with daily aftershocks of nasty prose. People were reading again. Bob was earning E-street credit as word of the friendly atmosphere at his haven for linguistical hobbyists spread. He had it all; he was a hero. Then one day, Bob disappeared. The misery and mystery of Bob's sudden departure was enhanced by a voicemail greeting he recorded on the day of his disappearance thanking his friends and family for their support. The paternal verbiage of his writing collection became stagnant, as the quarterback was officially MIA. I want to answer some questions for Bob's reading audience, and perhaps put to rest the daily discomfort those of you experience when you ponder, "What happened to Bob?" Although many of you believe Bob was not human, he was exactly that, and prone to making mistakes. The mistake he has made here, that he will take to his grave, is not informing the public of his ailment; furthermore, he would have done us all a service by exhibiting a smidgeon of honesty, and explaining the daily struggle of his condition. This condition I speak of is the cause of his absence. The following is a thuthful introduction to Bob's predicament. Please read carefully, as the details of his departure are a testament to his courage. Let us not dwell on Bob's neglectful failure to nurture his website. Instead, let's celebrate the man that is Bob Mcgovern: a patriot, a hero, a survivor. On the morning of July 23rd, 2006, Bob awoke with a vicious hangover. His eyes surged from his head, which surged back with the high tide of hurricane season. The young man was a beached blue whale, confused during a feeding frenzy, and withdrawn from the sea of booze. His rescue team consisted of an early morning beer that sufficiently quelled the pangs of withdrawal as brain chemistry adapts to Ethyl-alcohol vacancy. This feeling had become his Sunday morning friend. What was foreign was a burning itch in the grundular region. For those unfamiliar with the grundle, it is the plateau of unused real estate that spans from the rear seam of the ball sack to the anus. It’s the magic manly no-man's land. It's a useless place, generally speaking, unnoticed by the bulk of the male population. The remaining chunk of male society have only become infinitely aware of it's presence due to a funky odor, a particularly creative female, or a fascination with the application of Gold Bond Triple Medicated powder. The burning itch indicated the presence of A) a dire need to bathe, or B) a sexually transmitted disease. Bob came from the school of decent hygiene, so choice A was discarded. Choice B, however, remained under serious review. Bob’s antics of late had been a-christian, to say the least, and it seemed that finally his promiscuity had gotten the better of him; implying that by infecting the magic manly no-man’s land one has gotten the better of another. He considered the possible sources of his ailment while browsing his cell phone contacts. He thought it better to be a “Thumb Guy” and accept responsibility for his actions instead of being a “Finger Guy” and hunting down his evil undoer; if only to prevent further spread of the epidemic. Bob went to the doctor. Time passes quickly while reading Cosmopolitan’s 101 greatest sex tips. Bob chuckled as he thought of adding his own: get mutherfucking tested. He was sitting on the paper-covered inspection table in his white robe, which allowed plenty of ventilation for the region of flesh now in searing agony. The doctor arrived, mechanically performed his inspection of the afflicted area, and departed in one fell swoop. Bob sat alone, puzzled, disturbed, then relieved by another chuckle at considering his addition to Cosmo’s list. The old master of anatomy returned with his verdict. According to an unnamed source, this was approximately the conversation that ensued. Bob: What’s up Doc? Doctor scowls, sits, and flips the front page of his notepad. Doc: Mr. Mcgovern, I’ve both good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first? Bob is still thinking about Cosmopolitan and decides to tell Doc of his idea before the end of his visit Bob: The good, sir. I’m the type of guy that eats his desert first. Doc still has not broken a smile. Doc: Well then, you’ll be happy to know that no further testing for sexually transmitted diseases will be necessary. (Bob: Whew!) We will, however, need to refer you to a specialist. Bob: Wha? Doc: A specialist, one who specializes. Bob: So, you are saying that I’m a special case? Doc: Every case is special, but what you’ve developed is only studied by a handful of physicians worldwide. (Uncomfortable silence) Bob: Please, go on. Doc: I’m sure you are familiar with the term Hermaphrodite. (Bob makes his classic big-eyed stare) Bob: Is this where the bad news begins? Doc: Perhaps. Bob, what you have, and I’m only speculating, is one of the rarest forms of sexual malfunction. You have a genetic mutation that results in what is known as Late Onset Acute Hermaphroditus. Bob: What the fuck does that mean? Doc: Quite simply, it means that you are growing a vagina. At this point, livid and raving, Bob took his clothes from the office without changing, left the office, and began to seek a second opinion. The second opinion led to a third, and then a forth. Bob would argue this, that, and the third: you’re an idiot, you’re a liar, I’m completely fucked. The results were conclusive; Bob would have to seek out special treatment for Late Onset Acute Hermaphroditus, or he would grow a vagina. Aside from the panicked international phone call to the unnamed source, Bob has departed indefinitely on his quest to preserve his manhood. If you would like to contact Bob, please send email to bobmcgovern@gmail.com. Your support would be greatly appreciated. You may also send email to ben.t.myers@gmail.com, and I will personally deliver your condolences to his family, and perhaps post them online. Donations to the “Save Bob Mcgovern’s Manhood” fund should be made payable to one Benjamin Myers, and sent to 182 Elm St., Quincy, MA. 02169. Help us, help Bob. Thanks.
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by Ben Myers
Posted by Dave Cividino It is difficult to explain how I reached this heightened feeling of complete relaxation and clarity. Perhaps it was the local city workmen sitting around a large wooden table enjoying their morning break with a few pints of lager, perhaps it was the German waitress dressed in the traditional dress; intimidating upper body strength with a hard yet beautiful face, the type of woman who would take care of you while cooking, cleaning and watching after 6 kids at the same time without a single whim of complaint; also the type of woman who would make you feel like you were a play toy when she felt like riding you into the sunrise. Perhaps it was the fact that I had just walked four blocks in the blazing summer heat after a night of heavy drinking and was once again, at 9:30 in the morning, quenching my thirst with a pint of Ale while shoveling potato pancakes covered in apple puree down my throat at the Augustina beer garden. I am not really sure what it was but as i sipped on my second round of beer and pancakes, a flooding of complete euphoria engulfed my body and mind. The feeling was so intense that I could not stop smiling and I almost began to cry. I looked around the room and sucked in the dank morning air of the indoor, wood laden garden. I had no care in the world. I would have welcomed death with open arms for this moment was the highest moment I have ever reached. I had traveled all around Europe, I had seen beautiful architecture, nature in its most awe-inspiring form, gorgeous women of all ethnicities...true, untouchable beauty. It was at this point I decided that my life was not meant to reach heights and dreams that I desired and craved so desperately for. I had reached a peak that I fear I may never reach again. No amount of money, power or fame could ever top the feeling I felt in that moment of ecstacy and therefore I am dedicating my life to finding the source of my temporary euphoria...without the help of mind expanding drugs...in order to find my inner peace. I recommend that all of you find that place as well...ordering the potato pancakes and a pint of beer for breakfast at the Augustina beer garden in Munich is a good place to start.
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Wednesday, August 09, 2006 by Ben Myers
posted by Ben Myers
Dear Mr. Michael Hershey,We are in agreement; I’m entirely culpable of the careless vandalism of your bedroom wall. Repair the damage and I'm under obligation to reimburse all security withheld due to this infraction. I was reckless, and I apologize. In my defense, had that intoxicated subhuman refrained from provoking me in my drunken state and adequately prepared himself for my assault, he would not have generated this senseless destruction. Furthermore, had he assumed an athletic position of moderate stability, he may have sustained my lunge and not have collapsed like a soft clown into the sheetrock partition. We are also in agreement on the second count; I take full responsibility for peppering your living room blinds with the pellet gun. I was wrong. For initially taking aim at your window, I’m ashamed; and the 200 plus round assault which followed is inexplicable. At the time, I claimed that I was trying to let in a little more sunlight. I’m still trying to live with these regrets, one day at a time. However, it would be ruthless for the apartment managerial staff to charge you for this minor remodeling given the extent of physical harm caused to your apartment during our senior year. You must not let these barbarous a-holes record these petty offenses. I trust you will stand up in defiance of their tyrannical oppression! On the third count, for which I stand accused, I must plead guilty. During the fall of 2005, I did indeed manufacture a potato gun in your living room. Upon completion of the weapon, a test fire was conducted in that same living room, under the close supervision of several peers; namely, one Johnny Football and one Steven Bagley. This test fire projected a potato bullet towards the south-east wall of the property. The extreme velocity and steady aim of this vegetarian missile produced a gaping hole in that same wall. I beg your forgiveness for both the manufacture of the Potato Gun (also known as “Jihad 1” ) and the resultant breech of your living room wall. To this day, I’m astounded by my immaturity. I was a sleazy fool with suffering conscience during these formative days, and I’m sorry. Rest assured, there was not a single witness of the test fire that expected complete penetration of the wall. Many doubted our ability to procure a successful test fire, but we did. We, but mostly I, cannot be held entirely responsible for this episode of delinquency. We were temporarily excited, near frenzy, with the prospect of launching produce up to 300 yards! Having known you for quite some time, I believe you would have shared in our jubilation. The hole caused when the potato collided with your living room wall is worth every penny that will be deducted from your security deposit, trust me. It was awesome. If you wish to alert me of any other costs for which you believe I’m responsible, do not hesitate. Perhaps we can negotiate a resolution. I’m not proud of my actions, I’m amazed. Yours Truly, Benjamin T. Myers P.S. If the young lady who received those awful burns on her feet when Jihad 1 backfired is looking to press charges, let me know. Thanks.
Jihad 1: Before "I hate my Dad" was written on the barrel
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Saturday, August 05, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Steve Bagley Life in the Brick is a twenty-one year mighty bit of a waitress (but secretly and actually a poetess dragon) with real-deal hips and pink toenails hidden in sneakers who sits in hot, cavernous subway stations wiping her shiny forehead after long evenings serving fresh lobster and oyster to upright capitalists of the noble prosperous cline in shined shoes and neat suits while perspiration honey forms on her neck and chest hurrying with trays and wines and appetizers that they ordered, or that they ordered but no longer want, or didn’t want but changed their minds, or was a little too hot, or too cold, Miss, essentially not to perfection as we like it, Miss… and she just giggles and curtsies with a shy downward looking face and upward looking glint of eye the way a small daughter looks up at her daddy for approval and forgiveness after a miniature fit of rage wrapped in cuteness—only showing politeness and apology and never showing her tattoos. Oh, those tattoos. Such a fine waitress she is, I do say, and this sweet little braided blonde, with a broad face meant for looking away shyly entertains the inclination, once a day, the daydream, once a day, with considerable pleasure, to ram a fork into the upright prosperous skull of one of these dining businessfolk— In her fantasy, she, with her gold hair swept back and tied to reveal dark eyebrows and pinchable cheeks, rams that fork home, then skips in delighted circles as the ungrateful noblemen leap away in horror as one of their own lies face down in his lobster bisque with a fork standing erect from the back of his skull. The price he would pay for his evils. Such a fine thought to entertain. The night is but long. Tonight she will sip on a hard drink after work to remind the poet inside she is still squirming, and walk past the thousands of malevolent faces bending out of the night in ragged shirts with red eyes and beard stubble—the aversion of eyes, the childish shyness—and skip down steps to the underground station to wait for the train. And the ride back to her side of town is also long but at least the subway train always supplies sufficient entertainment as it slows down abruptly at each stop so as to catch a wino off guard, sending him hurdling off balance, and this, she loves, she kicks and writhes to hold back laughter at the simple harmless misfortune of a wino who didn’t hold on, who now is falling slowly down the aisle in a crazy attempt to maintain his balance as he swings lanky arms and clambers clumsy feet with a whoa! whoa! whoa! before finally landing face down ass up in the aisle. She squirms with oozing pleasure at the idea of it! This is a finer thing to she than the fine things as perceived by the odd cubic cancerous successful droves, foolish fools actually, who do not see the actual dragon but a girl, but really a dragon wrapped in her thin veil of politeness and the shameful need for good tips so she can pay rent—they cannot see her curved naked body splayed out on a futon in the hallway and her unclothed shyness and smell what her belly smells like and can never imagine in their own impotent skulls those tattoos, and the things she’ll let a lucky boy do, woohoo. She hurries down side streets past the symphony and she is surrounded by moons and stars hanging like pendants from unknowable places in the night sky, dangling down between the buildings and alleyways just for her, as she laps up almost-melting strawberry ice cream in her mind as it dribbles down her knuckles as she scurries home under Bostonian lamplight and tree to her niche in the brick. Her hope is like the tall grass and weeds, right before it rains, where the wind upturns leaves, and it darkens over the fields—the weeds and grass get shoved, and rolled, and shoved again by the wind coming in, and then a harder shove flattens them out, and then the wind recedes and the weeds and grass rise back reluctantly in a peaceful moment that soon dies as the wind was only resting, then rolls back in hard and drunk and the weeds and grass are helpless to get shoved and rolled again and pushed again, knowing the rhythm of the rolling heads above will soon shove hard and lay them all flat, this time maybe forever.
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Please email prospective posts to ben.t.myers@gmail.com.
Or, if you are so inclined, bobmcgovern@gmail.com
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