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02.28.10 - 5:22PM CST
like you didn't see this coming
well folks, it's that time. i've moved on from misteradiant.com. i've posted here since march of 2005, when missradiant/indigo and i lived in hawaii. i've written about strip clubs and beer. sex, politics and religion. i've been drunk and nasty, sober and crying. honolulu, new orleans, austin, san antonio and phoenix. katrina. many hundreds of thousands of words. it's been interesting and usually very fun but as i've been saying for three years, when i took everything i'd written to that point down, my shit ain't free. it isn't like a mad poet with a laptop can make money at his craft, anyway. so i am moving on. no time for losers. let that be my epitaph. then, FREEDOM OR DEATH!
the new orleans saints showed me what it takes to win. hard work. belief in yourself. and a little bit of luck. to quote chris cornell from down on the upside, "i think it's coming on the wind, and i'm gonna let it." i'm also sober for the first time in years. i took the last year to figure out what to do, to sort out my head and spirit. i spent three thousand dollars on beer. i was a renowned drinker. rowdy. scary to some. a write-off to others. now i have no time to waste fucking around on message boards and sitting in bars being a "magnificent bastard," as my best friend in austin calls me. i can be a magnificent bastard sober, trust me.
you haven't seen much of me here for the past three months, and not at all in the last two, because as i mentioned, i've become the editor of bikernetMetric.com. the proprietor of the bikernet franchise, the legendary bike builder, former easyriders mag editor, tv and radio personality keith "bandit" ball has given me an opportunity to write about something i know well but rarely covered here: motorcycles. specifically, "metric" japanese bikes like honda and yamaha. i don't make a lot of money at it yet, but i'm building a custom bobber with the help of people i've met and most are donating parts for advertising and articles on bikernetMetric. for some i am also offering my grafik design skills. everybody wins in the barter system and the irs can suck poopy buttwads.
the website drew 6,000 readers and 19,000 page views last month. misteradiant.com never got much more than 2,000 readers a month and now, maybe a dozen. when i took bikernetMetric over in mid-november, it was almost zero. i hope to have 20,000 readers and 60,000 pageviews in june. when that happens, and the "freedom or death" machine is built, i'll be making money because people will start paying for advertising. i hope. not the guys that helped, i owe them, but the guys that see they can get their company website to 50,000 eyeballs a month for a hundred bucks. the guys that help me build the bikernetMetric machine get ads and articles for free until 2011. and the builder himself? forever. jeff has proven to be a great friend.
so that's it. i may never post here again. i may post every once in a while. i don't know. i don't care. i've spent 12% of my entire life writing here and caring about it. again, it was fun but i have to grow up and make money having fun. bikernetMetric is where it's at.
to commemorate the life of misteradiant.com, to place it's existence in a perfect circle, i offer the first thing that was ever posted here. the date was 03.19.05. it was written on a 1920's remington noiseless portable in a hostel room in waikiki on a glorious afternoon with the sea breeze blowing through the open lanai door where indigo sat naked, smoking cigarettes, reading books on astrology. it's called "poor writer, beautiful stripper."
i am a poor writer. she is a beautiful stripper. i have been homeless. she has been an escort. it has been a life of struggle. struggle to pay rent, to find simple stability. to afford cigarettes.
people promise things they cannot do. she gets that a lot when she takes off her panties and shakes her ass at men. she wears the ring, our promise. they ask if she is married. she asks if they are. end of get-to-know-your-stripper time. now give me five dollars. then come the promises.
"it's your lucky day."
"you should be a flight attendant."
"i would treat you better than your ex."
"you are too beautiful to work here."
and her favorite; "i have money if you need it."
she tells me these things an hour before she points her toes skyward in preparation to receive my seed. i am her gardener. she is my fertile earth.
these things once made me uncomfortable.
it isn't a hard job, she says, it just feels like it sometimes.
i am a poor man plowing my planet.
i have played my music before thousands. she has danced for the same. we talk about getting her back in school. she is a film student. she is changing her major to history. we talk about getting my word published. we laugh about world domination jokes. she plays with my seed on her tongue. she gasps for me to pinch her nipples when she comes. i do. hard.
she wants christina ricci to play her in the movie she wants to make about us. i want johnny depp or vincent gallo to be me.
promises.
i tell her that i will write a book about her, about her life about her love about loss and pain about the way she cries my name when i hurt her with love with lust for peace and frustration. with words.
i love her pussy. through her clit is pierced a blue jewel. it matches her eyes. her pink and blue things make money. she is wisdom clutching the word of god. i write about love about sex and death about the come i leave to dry upon her breasts. she is pink and purple, black and blue. i am mister radiant, pouring oil upon her glowing shadow in the hotel room we share with her magic books and my typewriter. she is my cross. i am her nail. we are the reflection made by the beginning searching for its end.
i tie her up and fuck her ass.
we struggle to afford her birth control pills.
she tells me she thinks about me when she dances for other men. she thinks about how much smarter she is than the men she dances for. a smile upon her face.
she got pregnant with her ex. he spent the abortion money on porn. her womb hurt. the baby born dead. it sucked her nutrients dry and the vomit cut holes in her teeth. we talk about fixing them. if her eyes were blind, god would be a hate-filled and spoiled child. her hurting smile only proves that god promises to redeem her dream of success when vanity ends and the truth of her possessions give more than take. such a burden, to own the word of god and wonder why she must carry it until death with dreams and beauty and misunderstanding.
she takes off her clothes for those that will pay for it.
suckers.
i get her for the price of my word.
i am a poor writer. she is a beautiful stripper.
+ + +
indigo and i are still together and more in love than ever. she's had her epiphanies, too, and she is kicking ass right now. i am so proud of her.
god bless all of you and good luck.
the wind is blowing...
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12.13.09 - 7:01PM CST
the new orleans saints hold the keys to heaven AKA: remember, you saw it here first
some say 13 is an unlucky number. what about 13 colonies and the stripes they represent on our flag? whatever. today the new orleans saints won 13 games in a row and i'm here to tell you what i've been saying for two months: they are going to win the super bowl. yay. i'm so sick of basketball and the game show setup it represents. who dat? nobody but the new orleans saints kicking your fucking ass.
+ + +
a poem from five or six weeks ago:
the dreams of a million poets wearing hats and glasses
doing something they don't care about
dreaming things of skylight
and birds flying
stupid poetry will fuck your soul
so off you go and live
for money and those you love
forever
asshole
friends are people who know you after you've foisted your will upon them
for the dream of friendship
of finally being understood by someone you didn't have to fuck
for the life of a lie
because we all have one
yes
you
liar
don't worry
i won't tell
i don't divest myself from what i write
i am what i write
who are you?
motherfucker
dream yourself and be it
and carry no corporate logo upon your chest
wear them under your feet
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11.22.09 - 8:42PM CST
accusations, disbelief and mistrust
ghosts are silent things
that live in our hearts
our minds
on our tongues
dreaming whiskey breath
for the lives of a hundred million souls
of the past
+ + +
the dream of the sane sleeping not bleeding and bruised dreaming once upon a time when she was stronger
a conqueror
it takes my whole body to hold her down
lipstick on the telephone broken and reborn the drugs and alcohol and i'll fuck her in the morning as i tell her
coming inside of her home of life and struggle
have my baby and be with me forever
trust and honesty cannot exist without the other like space and time and life and dirt tattooed on the neck of a hard man to love
motorcycles and beer breath kisses instead of a fart joke for jesus and the resurrection
the stone
moved to reveal an empty tomb of words of history and mythology
of imagination without science
inventing words of dreams of cubicles and significant others praying for the government's money
the segue remembers how much the prophets starved
believing in infinity
as if god will never wake up to forget about us and cry about something we cannot imagine
long after we are dead and lost forever
we won't forget the resurrection of all of us to a culture of stimulants and depressants and bartenders dressed like schoolgirls but with bigger tits who remember anal sex and days lost sleeping while walking to the bus wondering why cocaine makes you shit
the metaphor of life
of weeks gone by and the speech of what a parent knows and what a child doesn't believe in dreams written by television producers about sweat and welts they've never known about the tenderness if you
touch
her there
like i do and thank her for this six-year poem of empty beer bottles and shot glasses and come rags of forgotten promises of praise and shame
she wants to fuck me all the time
sometimes i want to drink
to come home and fuck her first before i crank the stereo of love songs i sing along to
she says i need a separate room because i do it at four in the morning
surprise
it's thursday
the day of turning back time without regret
a dead jewish rabbi wrote this poem
learning from the master
i find how much work i have to do.
+ + +
7:33PM CST
gulp
all right you bastards. tonight i read bandit's words, "in the future we may need to work harder." take that to heart, people and lay awake at night thinking about it. then kick ass or die. bastards.
from bikernet.com:
A woman stopped by, unannounced, at her son's house. She knocked on the door then immediately walked in. She was shocked to see her daughter-in-law lying on the couch, totally naked. Soft music was playing, and the aroma of perfume filled the room.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I'm waiting for Mike to come home from work," the daughter-in-law answered.
"But you're naked!" the mother-in-law exclaimed.
“This is my love dress," the daughter-in-law explained.
"Love dress? But you're naked!"
"Mike loves me and wants me to wear this dress," she explained. "It excites him to no end. Every time he sees me in this dress, he instantly becomes romantic and ravages me for hours on end. He can't get enough of me."
The mother-in-law left. When she got home, she undressed, showered, put on her best perfume, dimmed the lights, put on a romantic CD, and laid on the couch, waiting for her husband to arrive.
Finally, her husband came home. He walked in and saw her laying there so provocatively.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"This is my love dress," she whispered sensually.
"Needs ironing," he said. "What's for dinner? |
11.15.09 - 9:33PM CST
chains and memories from the middle of september
chronic traumatic encephalopathy
caused by repetitive trauma to the brain
oh i've got brain drama
let me tell ya
and a cheap beer
drank the good stuff yesterday
it was sunday and cool and gray
hooray for beer
makes me forget the brain stuff
stupid multiple concussions
one took months before i could speak again
plus the others
the haystack one
the porsche one
the times i hit my own head over and over screaming why are you doing this to me
beer makes it better
even if it's cheap
when i'm a millionare
i'm going to find a cheap girl
who won't know what she's got
who is simply thankful for love
and wants to fuck every day
sufferers may experience memory loss
emotional instability
erratic behavior
depression and impulse control problems
progressing eventually to full-blown dementia
woo hoo
i'll be like homer simpson
the zen he is but doesn't know
hooray for beer
motherfucker
seriously
dang
mine's empty
+ + +
if you can read this it's because i'm eating your pussy
i got a zit on my knee. the knee with a two-inch red spot where a scab stood a few days ago. it bugs the shit out of me. asshole zit. go away!
and politics like jesus wasn't a political figure. for sure, man. as if obama hasn't already proved himself to be a liar. god. fucking politicians. seriously. if they were all dead we'd be free. anything else is another lie and hypocrisy.
it's obama and hillary! and i can see her boobies! i dream of fucking boobies. i dream of coming on white teeth, red lips, laughing.
"oh the irony of it all!"
marilyn monroe, ladies and gentlemen. she is better than boobies. she is beautiful and hurt and scarred. and dead. fuck. okay. i did say boobies:
i know it's been a few weeks. i've been busy, folks. work at the bar plus a gig editing a famous biker's latest novel. when it's published, i'll let you know. on top of that i have another gig, this one to write, provide content and edit bikernet metric and the bikernet metric blog. in the next few weeks there will be some changes in design and much more stuff to read and reply to. not like here where i'm the solitary madman, screaming at reverberating walls.
on top of that i've been paid $500 to create a logo for my old friend at cruiser customizing. he's got a new project he's putting online.
lastly, i just finished a poster for the 15-year anniversary party for casino el camino on 6th in austin. for that bar i have also been paid to re-design and implement a new website. so don't expect a ton of crazy misteradiant shit right now here in my play world at misteradiant.com. although i did write a four-page long poem until five a.m. on november first....
maybe i'll throw that up here. maybe not. whatever. later.
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10.25.09 - 3:33AM CST
there was just a huge explosion out my window as set the code up for this page. probably two blocks away. wonder if it was a meth lab and some schlub is burning and screaming or just passed still burning.
when i was a boy and i read fahrenheit 451 i wanted to read the books that were being burned. i wanted to be the author of one of those books that were being burned. i am misteradiant. motherfuckers. i've dealt with fire in ways none of you have. none of you have cried out for fire in fear of being marked forever or in joy at having a story to tell.
all right. that's only because i was in the emergency room today and had a few hours to contemplate mortality. it happens sometimes. anyway, back to the things that might kill me: women, beer and motorcycles.
she is so gonna show her boobies.
a photo of abraham lincoln stares at another part of the room, unaware that i am staring at him. i wish i could have heard his voice. it must have been great. they say thomas jefferson had a high, squeaky voice, and was not so assured of his ability to write something as grand as the declaration of independence. others believed in him and helped him. john adams was one. he was the second president. he was a patriot. he feared a two-party government. he knew we needed more. jefferson hoped we'd be an agrarian society who treated our slaves well and fucked the hot ones.
time will dull the love you have for others if you are not careful.
jesus told me you'd love me anyway
dreams of the uninitiated cry out....
jesus told me you'd love me anyway
more fun than a computer
like a blowjob from somebody you love
or a robot porn star crying "fuck me!" into the camera "oh yeah!" with your dick in her ass
like jesus would do on cnn
if he existed
and came back in time to tell you what to do.
but praise the lord
motherfucker
because jesus is all about telling you what to do
as the typewriter of my dreams creates a hundred million dollars
for the souls i love
and the wish to tell everybody that yes, money does buy happiness.
jesus told me you'd love me anyway
as long as i didn't eat a camel
with wet understanding of biblical river stories of floods and cia hit jobs for jesus
because the president believes in him
somehow not imagining jesus with a gun
even as we create him.
stupid computer
i will kick your ass some day
some day when the satellites have decayed and trembled to the ground
as if i spoke the word of god
don't you?
(to the prophet mohammad, who took the new christian stories circulating in saudi arabia and corporatized them to enslave women who would fuck him any time had he not been such a controlling ass cheese fomenter.
ring ring
hello?
yes. i am christopher robbins. you've been deemed worthy to enjoy 72 virgins forever!
and the crowd goes wild.
really? wow. i must be dead. praise allah. murdering a slew of my innocent countrypeople in protest to our occupying army has brought me to where i was promised i'd be! praise allah! wow. i can't believe it. i don't even have to pee any more. the last thing i remember was.... what time is it?
there is no time here. i present you with 72 virgins. they've never been told anything about sex and really, because they are so young, are kind of afraid of it. you know what a woman does to give you a great blowjob, right? and kegel exercises because of course there is no birth control in heaven so your virgins will soon produce for you 20 babies a year while reminding you to leave the toilet seat down but you keep forgetting because there are hundreds of crying babies all the fucking time from women who won't take anal (where they won't get pregnant) and never swallow your come!
two hundred crying babies and 72 sagging bitches telling you to make your own fucking dinner. asshole. oh, and by the way, that's where you hid it and all it killed was you. suicide is not honorable. it's cowardly. now you are filled with milk. now you feed your own babies. it comes from your cock and you can't make it stop for too long or it hurts. and you better keep being pregnant or your period is going to come back until you're 72. fuckhead. now do the dishes and shut the fuck up about what you want us to do before we kick your ass you ignorant, fundamentalist bitch for somebody else's success.
yeah. like that. but uncircumcised.
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10.22.09 - 9:53PM CST
some day i will make you all pay
fuck b of a. bank of america? like washington and adams and jefferson wouldn't take up arms and kill you now.
you know what b. of a. stands for? no? b of a is an acronym for bunch of assholes.
just in case you thought the politics part of this website as over. i call for revolution. turn your fucking baseball caps over and shade your eyes. see the truth and not be blinded.
obama as a peace prize winner is a joke. what the fuck did he do besides blab about what he's gonna do? is the "patriot act" repealed? have we brought calm to iraq and afghanistan? are bankers and their insurance cronies still free after breaking us? yeah. the nobel peace prize comes all over that. it comes harder than a 12-inch porn star's pot-induced coke spray over the smiling face of amerika. the words shine when the semen dries all over the lies.
freedom or death. motherfuckers.
not like i wouldn't have killed george bush when he was president. fucker. what are you gonna do, secret service douchebag lackey henchman? read more and be offended? idiot. kill me or jail me and imprison yourself, fuck-assed boy for the man. i mock you as you point your trigger finger above the middle of my eyes.
this is the first post of october and it's the 22nd. i should have posted weeks ago. i blame the blowjobs and beer. in that order.
therefore, i must say that i really like reading a few blogs. besides bikernet, which really isn't a blog, i dig chopper dave, motorpsycho and jesus. jesus saved me by the blood he shed as he cried out has his father forsaken him? god. our father.
that is the lesson. we are all forsaken by our daddies. they fuck and forget. a dream of being more important than money is futile. the dream of money is what takes them from us. stupid geniuses. always playing incomprehensible guitar solos in our ears. singing harmonies. god and the devil all inside my mind.
ghosts are silent things
things that live in our hearts
in our minds
on our tongues
dreaming beer breath for the lives of a hundred million souls
of the past
motherfuckers.
don't make me kill you and start a new religion.
this bike is cool:
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