Picture a typical playground surrounded by a black chain link fence.
The same kind found in the park adjacent to a picturesque upper-middle
class neighborhood of restored and renovated Victorian houses; all
with perfect green lawns and white picket fences. This neighborhood,
as part of a Long Island town, has the privilege of overlooking the
harbor. As the waterfront view, nestled closely to the blissful little
park, reflects the golden sunshine in the sparkling ripples created by
wind, you almost forget why you are there. Cuddled in your arms is
quintessential beauty. Sitting on a bench, in a park, in a
stereotypical waterfront New England town, the one you love and
cherish most is resting against you. Her deep, brown eyes stare you
down with a mesmerizing gaze that appreciates every subtle movement
you make. You return her appreciative stare and, as she is about to
speak, time practically stands still. The anticipation of what she is
about to say hangs on your mind like the climax of an epic story.
I love you, she says.
Its at that moment you realize that this is the happiest moment of
your entire life.
You tell her that.
But you fail to realize just how correct you are because you will
never be that happy ever again.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Just a thought
Freedom
When I found her, it was not so much a discovery as
the inevitable culmination of all that had amounted to
the years of her life.
The difficulties of standard social pleasantries and
social scenes had never been lost on me, or rather I
have never mastered the art of social maneuvering, My
concept of humans as one united mass pulsating as an
organism of the Earth has been never been the most
keen, thus the fragile social ties that I have managed
to maintain through the years have been strained,
amazing it is the houses built on sand have not been
embraced by the tide, though I do not hold any false
hopes for the future.
Thus, when I was obligated to inform my relatives and
relations of the events that had just transposed, I
responded in a casually somber tone, not given to
hysterics, no draining spiders down the plughole, they
all complimented at how strong I had been in handling
this situation.
The truth is strength has nothing to do with it.
The truth is that I felt not happy nor said, the
truth is that I felt nothing, except for perhaps some
remote guilt at my lack of feeling, I would have loved
nothing better than to be enveloped by a spell of
hysterical grief, to dress in ash and sackcloth and
pound my fists at the Gods demanding some rational
explanation for as to how this despicable act had
occurred, how they could have bared to stand by and
watch this unforgivable action to transpose.
But any attempts to elicit some response resembling
pity would be a foray into deceit. The fact of the
world and all that is in it remains clear, my emotions
were in of a resemblance no way noble.
When I found her, my wife no longer lay among the
living, having ingested a large quantity of
prescription medication ingested with Vodka, which I
found rather odd, for she almost never took her
medication. I found a most ambiguous ending to what up
until then had been a most agreeable day. Though
nothing particularly special of note had occurred, I
had awoken with a sort of unintentional joy, an
unexplainable skip in my step pushed me forward
through the actions required of me throughout the day.
I even entered my humble abode with a sort of
enthusiasm I rarely hold for the hearth of home.
That's when I saw her.
When I found her, there was nothing that can be said
of the matter, for no words can be spoken which shall
arise the dead, no witty retorts which shall undo what
has been bounded together into the embers.
Although her body had expired rather recently, her
soul to take had flown away long ago, her will wisped
away for reasons I shall never understand, she was so
secretive, only in her most fragile of moments would
she reveal crucial details of what made her what she
was, and even when she was in such a confessional
state, the details I could not bear to hear, not out
of indifference, but of cowardice. Though my empathy
was deep felt, my reverence for some untarnished
image of her, The Madonna, would be put in serious
jeopardy and I wished to not tread further into such
unholy territory.
The sacred territory would be trampled soon enough.
After we had wed in holy union, all unity of a sacred
chastity came crashing down, which in retrospect
should come as no surprise, for I have found all that
I have held sacred has degenerated into the filth of
the world and all that is the case sooner of later.
The tighter one grasps, the quicker one shall be
caught.
And caught I was, to late to see the error of my
ways, the divergence from the pious and narrow path,
and although she no longer confessed to me those
crucial details of what had made her, I nevertheless
was subject many painful glimpses of what she had
become.
Infused with Vodka and the malice of her upbringing,
she would at times become a demon intent on wreaking
havoc unto the world, I would do my best to mollify
her, but passive compensation would not satisfy her,
Demi Gods may be appeased with Wine and Flowers… Real
Gods require blood.
Though now God is dead, the procession continues on
with utmost regularity, platitudes and well meaning
aphorisms, all of which are inflected with the best of
intentions, and the most shallow of investment.
Nevertheless, I maintain a reserved gaze, learning
all of the formal regularities for an occasion such as
this, for funerals are an especially important time in
which to enact proper actions.
Everything in its right place.
Still, I cannot be certain whether this should be a
somber or downcast concern, with freedom I am now
faced, in freedom I am powerless, to freedom I am
condemned.
Strange Bedfellows
Hello.
It is a pleasure to meet you, I've heard much
about you, all things of a pleasant nature befitting
an esteemed {Non Gender specific Honorary Title} such
as yourself. Please, have a seat. Would you like
something to consume? Something in Liquid form
perhaps? We have a various array of hydrating
substances to choose from. Do you prefer water, or
perhaps to dabble in some libations could be
recommended in order to ease your senses? I am not
fond of drinking alone, so unless you object I have a
bottle of excellent Sake to share? What kind of drink
is that? Why it is a type of rice wine, it is rather
delicious I assure you, you shall not be disappointed.
But I digress, please; make your self at home, for my
tale of how I came to find myself here is a long one,
full of tears, betrayal, and partial nudity.
***
As I was traversing home from activities of an
academic and spiritual nature last week, wandering the
earth in search of wisdom and adventure; I happened to
once again cross paths with my old nemesis Timothy
Lee.
"WHAT? What are you doing here? I thought I had
finished you off back at the summit long ago!"
"You came very near to succeeding, but thanks to
the kindness of a benevolent apparition, My mortal
form was once again infused with the vitality
necessary in order to vanquish you once and for all!"
"Hmm, though the kindness of strangers can not be
depended upon, it occasionally does seem to manifest
itself in times of great need. And, in keeping with a
spirit of kindness, I imagine you have thirsted for
revenge for far to long, let me ease your suffering
and put pennies upon those eyes!"
Thus, the kimono had been unfolded, the die
cast. As neither party could now back down even if
they had so desired; this meeting was to alleviate the
bitter vendetta we had both harbored in our hearts for
so long now. We made agreements to meet later that
night where the sparrow flies to once again find
herself in union with the earth. The story in the
soil.
As I arrived in the cloak of silence and cover of
darkness, I was overtaken under the influence of a
mixture of nostalgia and melancholy. How many times
had I found myself at this place, how many times had I
exhaled the breadth of life in order that I may
inhale, only to one day have such breath no more. Had
I been born for no other reason than in order to die?
To be left alone with one's thoughts can provokes
unpleasant spirits dwelling deep within the mind. No
wonder most people never want to be alone, most people
don't want to feel the anguish that comes when freed
from a connection with some greater whole, most people
do not want to be challenged by the anguish in their
soul.
I was not left long with my thoughts however, as Tim
Lee appeared soon after. Consigned to silence, we both
adhered to an unspoken agreement to respect this
moment. The tension proved palpable, the air cool and
moist with a mild wind blowing to the southeast. The
elements that surrounded our mortal coil felt tampered
and oddly surreal, like a painting of a picture of a
photograph. As people who haven't seen each other
oftentimes are inclined to do, we ended up becoming
sidetracked and spent a surprising amount of time
caught up in a discussion about Tibet and the recent
appearance of the Dali Llama at the US Capitol and
the resulting negative reaction from China. But then,
WE DUELED!
A valiant and epic struggle it was, but the greater
man that fateful evening proved not to be one who
resides before you now. Much to the shame of my
ancestors, I was defeated against an enemy I had once
stood against victorious! Stripped of my honor, I lay
prostrate before him.
"You have defeated me William, Heir to the House of
Lee. My life is to be taken as your rightful reward."
"Oh the many moons I have longed for this moment! To
dream of your downfall has given me comfort on many
cold and unforgiving nights."
"I may well imagine."
"Still, I do not plan to end you here."
"WHAT? WHATSOEVER DO YOU SPEAK OF?"
"To give the sweet release of death would be to
merciful for one such as you, one who has faced all
his life what all the sons of ancestors such as ours
must face."
Gazing off for a moment, a malicious smile
imperceptibly began to imprint itself upon his face.
"For you, my most formidable of foes, I shall force
unto you a fate far crueler than the one you had
resigned yourself to. Now that I have taken that which
is most dear to you, and have made arrangements to
destroy whatever left you may hold onto to, I shall
make you but a hollow husk of the man you once were.
But I shall spare you your life, for life is the
cruelest of all punishments, and in your misery I
shall find comfort, upon your broken back I shall
dance, in your soul sapped of vitality I shall find
solace. Now go hither back to the hearth of home, and
reflect upon these words."
"Although, on second thought, if you don't mind
writing for my literary journal, we could just call it
even."
***
And so, you find me here today good {Non gender
specific Honorary Title}. Funny how life may from time
to time put one in such predicaments, expectations of
actions juxtaposed to how matters unfold make for
strange bedfellows. (Insert other couplet of
Ridiculous things) makes for even stranger ones.
Howl
You threw the first party of my first semester. Away at school and sober, I stayed up all night on yoo-hoo and powdered donuts. You were all of age and nicknamed. I remember hearing "Zombie Nation" play for well over an hour while dudes waited to drink upside down from a keg of natty ice. Everyone called you "buttsex", but I laid awake in your bed while you and my friend had regular sex in your attic. At some point in the evening I was kissed by three girls at the same time. That may have been the first time I ever tasted whiskey.
I remember a marine grilling portabello mushrooms with mozzarella. He called himself Lieutenant Dan. A crowd of kids chanted his name. Everyone chanted "buttsex". People scribbled shit all over the walls like: sublime rules, blow me, Sarah, best friends forever...twice, ska sucks, and METALLICA!!!.
The next morning, I cleaned up all of the empties. I threw away every plastic cup. I was going to mop the floor, but I couldn't find a mop. While everyone slept, I wrote the alphabet in block letters on your living room wall. Then I walked back to my dorm room and passed out.
Untitled
I finally found the courage to confront you
And on the lawn, with the wind whipping the fallen leaves around our feet asked you
If hiding inside your head helped
Or if it was just
Very lonely
Hey
Real people
I first saw you again at a party
When I staggered in drunk, high and drugged
"Are these real people?" I asked you
"Is this finally the center of the umbrella"?
You didn't answer and I
Turned around and dashed out
And hoped you'd wonder to yourself
Stall Box Correspondences
This was Jon’s first job, a fairly easy job that seems suitable for a tenth grader who only needs a 55 dollar paycheck per week to give him the ample amount of money to spend on taco bell and beer. Jon’s job: To assist in the cleaning of assorted small office buildings, usually two to three in a day. His tasks would include mopping, vacuuming, and emptying garbage, while not disturbing any of the employees who haven’t been fortunate enough to go home already.
The cleaning crew usually started around 3:30 and wrapped up the last stop at about 6:30. It was only 3 days a week, why not? Jon thought. He also got to work with his friend Anthony all three of the days, but then there was his boss Carmine Legasm. The last name made Jon think Leg Gasm, an orgasm only a leg could feel, a Charlie horse? Jon wondered. But no, it was Lee Gas Em. Anthony forewarned Jon of his bosses’ odd peculiarities, who was indeed a neat freak, but chose to wear the same clothes everyday. He would get annoyed when one of them would turn around to talk to each other face to face. Carmine craved conversation and attention. Also, he would cover his car in post it notes as reminders for everything: Gas, Milk, Bags, Clean. One would think he’d go so far as to put a POST IT on one of the actual post it notes. It was because Carmine was somewhat forgetful in his age, an disadvantage to an office cleaner, which in turn served as an advantage to his employees. Jon and Anthony really knew the old creep behind the somewhat already creepy old cleaning guy personality Carmine exuded. What a business this guy created. It was some of the easiest work imaginable, sure by most it’d be considered blue collar labor, but in a sense it could be classified as the work of a white collar, the simple tasks he must finish in the last ten minutes of his day. For this profession, it really all came down to getting the accounts, which paid out quite well for such meager services.
Carmine, being the nagging old bastard he is somehow had all these connections. Carmine had contracts for about a dozen different offices, all with their different businesses in the Farmingdale area. One account was known as SMSB, that was done only on Thursdays was some sort of Soft Drink imaging center, where Jon and Anthony found large tag boards with high quality resolution prints of soft drinks aligned as they would be on shelves.
“Is this all this place does?” Jon asked.
“I think so” Anthony replied.
Another one of the office accounts was a hair products distribution center which was easily the biggest account, and only a weekly account, far too much to handle. The place included such things as an in house salon, a bunch of long dark hallways and corridors that led you nowhere, in complete darkness, at least 2 dozen office rooms, all being very dirty after a week. But there was also a table where a 2 liter bottle of Diet Pepsi could always be found for the drinking. Jon and Anthony found this office to be the biggest fucking pain in the ass, its overall unkempt state far surpassed any other of the offices. Although there was a extremely attractive young girl who could be found working after hours, a young blond with an extremely slim flawless body, complimenting her disproportionately sized breasts.
“She’s fucking hot” Jon would comment.
“I know dude” Anthony would reply.
Carmine walked between the two of them who had paused in their tracks. “I’d barf her” he exclaimed, then walked off.
“Uhhhh, barf?” Jon asked disturbed.
“I have no fucking idea what is wrong with this guy” said Anthony
“What a fucking creep!” Jon said turning the vacuum back on. Anthony and Jon returned to their tasks so they could finish up this hellhole of an office to move onto their final account of the day, the best. The Buckingham palace of office spaces in Farmingdale.
This account was prosthetics, a prosthetics firm which consisted of both a limbs warehouse/workshop, and the front of the building which consisted of administrative offices, examining rooms, a waiting room, and two bathrooms. The process started with the mopping of the rear bathroom joined to the back warehouse. The sight of the warehouse was slightly disturbing but, almost majestic in a sense, especially considering their objective, replacing the legs and arms that have been so unwillingly retracted. This was a body factory churning out new appendages, Jon pondered if some of the technicians ever got bored enough to create prosthetic heads, torsos, genitals etc. Did they ever make an entirely prosthetic body, just to serve as extra company, or maybe just as a prop for a very funny joke.
After finishing up the rear bathroom, the crew moved towards to forwards office. Jon started his vacuuming, arguably the more demanding task, over emptying a few miniature garbage cans, but he would proceed without argument, it was only his second week, far too early argue about positions. Jon also had to use extreme caution when it came to his common work around the office, he was not to barge into any of the examining rooms or offices, he was not to disturb any of the employees while they were working. Especially the wife of the head doctor named Lorene, who at age 45 was barely grasping the vestige of her more youthful attractiveness. This had to be done with an heightened awareness of the surrounding sounds of office meandering. To be successful, his mind must function with the capabilities of a sonar radar, seeking out zones where sound waves had not been emitted, then to proceed and vacuum. So, a fully functioning vacuuming sonar radar. He had a preternatural knowledge of the office’s floor plan, so there would be no unforeseeable difficulties. Jon finished his vacuuming quickly, their really wasn’t anything on the floor at all, with the exception of a few forgotten paperclips. He picked them up by hand.
Jon went to return to the vacuum to it’s designated spot and ran into Carmine.
“Done Already?” Carmine asked.
“Yes I am, wasn’t too bad.” Jon replied.
“Wow, good stuff buddy, you can mop the front bathrooms now”
“Um, yeah sure. Just mop up? What about the woman’s bathroom?”
“Yeah, you do that one too. Mop and receptacles”
“Is that alright? For me to like be in there?”
“All the woman are left the office for the day, you’ll be fine”
“Okay, cool”
For a moment, an awkward hesitation resonated, then quickly dissipated as both walked away. Jon grabbed the mop, and rolled the bucket towards the bathroom. Jon opened the door to the oversized bathroom, it’s parameters capable of handling at least 6 stalls, but for some reason the contractors only chose to implement two. Wow, no urinals, kind of nice, Jon thought. He also noticed there wasn’t any trash cans present. He then went into to each stall to scrub the toilets real quick. And there it was.
A small stainless steel deposit box mounted to the side of the stall, with a lid. At first Jon thought it was a mailbox. What the hell is that, Jon thought. It didn’t have an address with Woman’s Stall #2 written next to it. It could be a tissue dispenser like the ones at school. Nope, there was no bottom slit. Jon peeked the lid up, then immediately dropped it. He saw blood.
Oh fuck, he though. Someone is going to barge in and slit my throat in about 8 seconds. Should I run? Nah, you’re done for. He waited, but never heard the sounds of thumping footsteps.
Maybe I should look again, it could just be some Hawaiian punch a kid left in there, Mmm Hawaiian punch. Jon lifted the lid once again and looked inside. There was a bloody tampon curled up in the corner. Jon first saw one while at his friend bill’s bathroom, when his sister left one in the toiler before. It was hideous, it always looked like something was wrapped inside of it, like a chopped off finger.
Jon had to clean this. He ripped off some toilet paper and crumpled it around his hand covering any signs of skin. He reached in and grabbed the soft moist tampon. He hesitated and studied it for a second. There was a note attached that read,
Thank You!
Jon wondered if someone really go to these lengths to be courteous and thank him, or it was just of spite. He couldn’t decide, but wanted to leave a note back. It’d be something funny. Not blatant like Fuck you, but something that would scare the person maybe. Jon scribbled on a shred of paper,
You shall feel the wrath of Khan!
and dropped it in the box. He threw the tampon in the toilet and flushed it down, even though that defeated the actual purpose of the tampon box. Jon finished his cleaning, and went to find Anthony in the lunch room. There they both spit in the cup of water Carmine asked for, he had no clue. He guzzled it down in a second, too quick to notice white cloudy strands floating in it. They locked the place up and drive home and the day was over.
The three of them returned the next day. Jon went to the woman’s bathroom and checked the box. There it was again, another note attached to a used tampon. It read,
How are you today?
This time Jon had no paper and had to maneuver the paper off and flip it over. He didn’t know to write a formal response, that’d be too normal of him. Maybe it was time to be cruel, Jon wrote down
Do you even have legs?
Jon wouldn’t return until next week. Again he found a note that again said,
How are you today?
Jon replied,
You said that already, don’t beat a dead horse.
The next three weeks every note left read:
How are you today?
in different handwritings. Jon finally grew fed up with and gave an actual response,
Fine, but I hate boring topical questions.
the next week the note left said:
sorry, I didn’t know what else to say, isn’t this kind of fun?
Jon left,
strangely enough it is, it’s anonymous, like a pen pal you had in fourth grade.
the next note read:
So, should we meet?
he replied writing:
Woah, calm down, this is simple and better. a meeting would be weird.
her next note read:
fine if don’t want to meet then this is a waste of time.
Jon replied:
It isn’t, and it’s only five seconds time anyway. you know it rules.
there was no note from her the next 5 weeks. Jon was puzzled. Then one Thursday as he entered the bathroom, he found Lorene from the office. She had paper in her hand.
“Oh god!, I’m sorry!” Jon told her.
“It’s alright” she replied.
They both stared at each other for a span of about ten seconds. The longest ten seconds of Jon’s life. They were a foot apart. Lorene walked out of the bathroom, and Jon check the box, no note. Next week, there was no note again. Jon didn’t leave one either. It was over, Jon wanted to quit this job anyway. Carmine complained about where he had to pick him up from. Jon, on his last day of work there, took a urinal cake and put it in a drawer of Lorene’s desk. That’s going to be funny when she finds it, Jon thought.
Free Food
I am sitting in a large room, situated much like a theatre. The room is wood walled and lined with rows and columns of old dilapidated theater like seats. There is a lingering stench of mildew.
30 feet in front of me a gaggle of brightly dressed men and woman aged in their early 20s are belting notes out and swaying their hips. These are actually student vocal groups, all nameless, except for the first group called, Drastic Measures. They are performing extremely well known and outplayed power pop radio hits, the last song performed whose band name and song title escape the name of me contains these lyrics in its chorus: “I’ll be the greatest fan of your life”. So now you know what I’m dealing with here. This isn’t why I came into this room, and but it’s almost keeping me here, entrancing in a way I simply cannot fathom. Maybe it’s the designated guy who beat boxes for every song. He sure goes heavy on the crash. The sole reason which brought me into this room was: Free Food, A truly essential landmark to encourage attendance to any half ass college event. In the back of the venue tables are lined up displaying a whole plethora of assorted food items. There were pastel colored cupcakes, large cookies, chocolate brownies, and sandwich platters from subway. There’s also plenty of beverage to relieve impending thirsts caused by the fast consumption of such delectable treats, Milk, Juices, and Sodas, and of course the classic Coffee and Tea. I’ve drank 2 cups by now, and downed 2 plates of food, mostly consisting of pink cupcakes. So do I just stand up, throw my garbage away and proceed out the door while a group of 15 enthused vocalists perform their lackluster rendition of a Kelly Clarkson song? Why can’t I just walk out the door? Am I the only person who’s felt this way? Has a member of the skull & bones society ever stood up and asked “Can I just leave now?”, grease smeared all over his face from the turkey leg he just finished. Has a member of the black panther party ever just said “WHAT, NO FUCKING FOODS?!” and walk right out of the meeting? I don’t think so. I hope you get my point. This entire ideal made me realize, that there is always some sort of price to pay, for food at least.
Rinse, Repeat
sharks swim right through asphalt
along side rusty boxes sweeping in rushes
constantly traveling
down endless paths
to fleeting destinations
becoming lost on
detours to oblivion
in grids of machinery
if only the unforgiving tides of an angry sea
stretched far enough
to wash and remove
leave only smooth moist plateaus
this would take place everyday
around 2pm.
regeneration for at least until
the morning sounds of everything
coming awake again.
Dreaming You
She comes in the night. She stands at my window, the one closest to my head, tapping her finger to wake me up. There’s no need; I’ve been awake since she woke up in her bed calling my name. I feign sleep when she comes, though. It’s more fun for both of us, it completes the old, overdone scene.
I don’t remember who slides the window up, but that’s all right. It helps me imagine that it slides up all by itself. That compliments both of us more than any mere personal action. As she climbs through, my hands helping and guiding her slim, graceful body, the moon bathes her in a light so glorious that my heart STOPS, and for hours I am trapped in that second.
I dream.
I dream again. And then,
she slides in beside me and my dreams feel so small next to the great warm light that stares at me from those deep wells that communicate to me all the beauty they have perceived without using those sublime lips, without using those delicate lungs for even the slightest exhalation. The breeze and the crickets play slow waltzes for the stars dancing in the distant past. Warmth and familiarity allow me to know exactly what her form and figure look like without ever moving my gaze from those eyes (those eyes, those eyes… those eyes!).
“I dreamt of you,” she says finally, with a smile so perfect it looks sharp, almost convincing you that those lips would cut you if you tried to kiss them. They still make me afraid, even though I know how soft they are, which is why, I think, I still hesitate. “You were falling, miles and miles, and I was even further from you. I’m not sure I saw your face, but I knew it was you, somehow. And just as I thought I would never reach you, I was right there with you, catching you, holding you. You fell so lightly into my arms, like a feather, you little bird.” And here she brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes.
I know all this. I could finish her story for her. But I fear more than anything that I’d ruin this divine moment, so I only smile in bliss that I can feel her fingers like orchid petals on my face so clearly. She continues. “For a while, I thought I was comforting you, but soon you were talking to me, telling me that everything around us is perfect and beautiful and all I had to do was open my eyes.”
I could say anything at all. I could tell her I love here, that I always will. I could tell her I’m sick, crazy, wild, stupid, explain all my hurts and pleasures in my simple life, and beg for her enlightenment. I could (should) ask her her name. But I stick to my lines.
“But you’re always the one who has to tell me that,” I say. I fell so stupid saying it, but she smiles, and that’s all I’m trying for, anyway.
She pulls her head into her shoulders slightly, playfully, her smile firmly, persistently there. When she opens her eyes, she whispers, “kiss me.”
I hesitate.
Then I reach my head forward. It’s indescribable, the kiss. All words fail to fully describe the complex beauty of this simplicity. It transcends paradise.
After, she sits upright and looks out the window. “The stars are beautiful,” she says. “I want to dance with them.” And in one fluid movement, she moves herself back out the window, arms outstretched, looking up. As I sit up to look at her, she turns around, her eyes burning at me, and that smile…
“Come with me,” she says, extending her arms and open hands toward me. As soon as I take her hands in my own, she begins to float. She goes higher and higher, and my grip slips so I don’t even get out the window. I’m left leaning out the window, looking up as she floats higher and higher, blending into the sky and becoming a star.
I wake up sweaty, erect, lonely. Every time. I guess I’ll masturbate.
Chapter II: D.E.A.D.R.A.M.O.N.E.S.
In 1987, Ronald Reagan underwent prostate surgery, Budd Dwyer shot and killed himself on live national television, Jim Bakker resigned as head of PTL ministries after an illicit affair, Kylie Minogue recorded “The Locomotion”, Prozac made its first appearance in the public market, and just an hour out of my hometown, an Amtrak train leaving Washington, D.C. en route to Boston collided with a Conrail train, killing 16 people in Chase, MD.
The latter occurred approximately five months before my sixth birthday. Not that I recall it particularly, but I suppose this was my first experience with avoided tragedy. The interesting thing about that train wreck was that my family was supposed to be on that train to Boston to visit my mother’s side of the family for a reunion or some such out in the Berkshires. However, due to some last minute circumstances, namely my two-year-old sister getting the flu, we were unable to leave home.
“Jean, we can leave Claire here with Edie for the weekend, and the three of us can go on ahead,” my dad yelled up the stairs.
“I am not going to ask Edie to do that! She comes in here and works for us five days a week, I can’t possibly ask her to spend her weekend taking care of a toddler with the flu, Pierce,” Mom fired back.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jean—“
“Don’t you talk like that in front of Marcus down there,” she shouted, storming halfway down the stairs at a speed I’d only previously seen in cartoon rats. “Pierce, I am not leaving Claire here with Edie, she’s a…” Mom quickly stopped herself to keep from adding the adjective, ‘fucking’, “…monster these days. Edie can barely handle her as she is.”
“Alright, fine, fine. Lord knows I don’t want to spend the weekend listening to Meri talk about her goddamned business ventures anyway.”
“Oh, that is enough, Pierce,” Mom shouted again, this time coming the whole way down the stairs. “I don’t complain when Gwen comes over and smokes in the house, or when your mother is knockin’ back the scotch while Marcus is there, so leave my family out of this, because for every stinkin’ thing you have to complain about them, I’ve got just as many for the Lievres!”
“Oh well, congratulations Jean. I appreciate the familial criticism from someone whose family has been so caring and such a constant presence in her life,” Dad sneered so smugly that I could virtually see the sarcasm seeping out of his mouth.
I quietly snuck through the doorway from the living room to the kitchen. I pretended that I was on a secret mission to the basement. The tiles felt cold on my hands, and the words of my parents felt hot all over. They had been fighting almost all the time, and over almost everything since my sister had been born. Mom was pregnant again, in an apparent, but ultimately unsuccessful attempt to keep the marriage strong. Things had been too strained for too long.
I took a peek back into the living room to see if I’d been spotted. My mom was pacing around the room, straightening couch cushions, and picking up toys. My dad sat fixed at the card table, talking, taking long pauses, leaning back in the green wooden chair. He’d speak calmly, condescendingly, which just made my mom more frustrated. She’d call him a robot, he’d say she was being illogical. I turned around and crept slowly around to the door behind the kitchen.
Escaping to the basement, I tiptoed quietly down the stairs. I was careful not to turn on the light in the stairway so that I wouldn’t give away my secret location. Every child needs a sanctuary. Sometimes they build them from sofa cushions, sometimes it’s a garish piece of neon-colored plastic erected in the backyard. My sanctuary was the basement. If you asked either of my parents what was down there, they’d tell you there was nothing, but to me, there was everything. The most important thing was my dad’s old record collection. I got to the bottom of the stairs and blindly navigated my way to the second room of the basement. I was careful to watch for the splintered dining room chair that our late English Sheepdog, Jasbo, had turned into a chew-toy. I ran my finger along the mortar between the cinderblocks. My fingernail scraped it and chills went up my spine.
I finally made it to the back of the basement where the old leather couch from my Grandad’s house, the record player, and the six or seven wooden record crates rested. My dad had made the crates when he was in college, and each one held something like a hundred records, maybe more. I started flipping through them. I couldn’t read most of the titles, as I’d only just begun learning, but unless it was something really simple (like Los Angeles by X), I’d just dig through until I found one that looked cool. I pulled out one with a big banana painted on it. Bananas made me gag, so I put it back. A little further down from it was one with a guy punching himself in a mirror. Blood was kind of cool, but also pretty scary, so I put that one back too. A few more and I found my favorite, Al Green (I knew his name because I knew the color). Al smiled at me from behind the dust sleeve, as I pulled the record out of its jacket.
Before I knew how to use the telephone, I knew how to use the record player in the basement. I remembered to brush off the record before I lifted the lid to the player. I put the needle down and turned the volume down low, so that only I could hear it.
“I’m so tiiiiiiiiiired of being alone, I’m so tiiiiiiiiiiiiired of being alone. Won’t you help me girl just as soon as you can?”
I kneeled and just stared at the album rotating, I listened to the scraping of the needle on the vinyl. I sat there so long that my knees started to hurt from the concrete floor, but I didn’t care. After listening through all of the first side of the album, I went to flip it to the B side.
“Listening to some Al Green, huh?”
“Yeah.”
My dad came over and sat on the leather couch behind me. “Do you want to listen to that side again?”
“No.”
“Could you do it for me?”
“I already listened to it,” I said without turning around.
Dad laughed, “Okay, well, do you want to keep listening to this or do you want to listen to something else?”
“I dunno.”
Frustrated, Dad walked over to the crate marked “F-M” and pulled out one with a bunch of cars in piles on it. “How about this,” he asked me.
“What is it?”
“Husker Du.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It sounds stupid.”
“You won’t know until you listen to it, buddy.”
“Yes I will.”
“Trust me, Marcus, you’ll like this.”
“Fine.”
Dad took the first LP of Zen Arcade out and handed it to me. Regardless of my front, I was always excited when my dad put on a new record. I put the needle down, and sat on the couch next to my dad, listening to the opening bass line of “Something I Learned Today”. As the song went on, I leaned closer to my dad, resting my head on his thigh. My dad told me about what happened to the train we were supposed to be on. I said it would have been cool to see a train wreck. He said we might have died if we had been on it. I said that wouldn’t have been as cool. He chuckled a little bit, brushed his hand through my hair, and said, “You know, Husker Du recorded all of these songs on their first takes?”
“What’s takes?”
“Their first try.”
“Oh…so?”
“What do you mean, so?!”
“Isn’t that how everyone does it?”
“That’s not how anyone does it.”
In that basement, where there was nothing, my father and I listened to “Broken Home, Broken Heart,” for the first time together, and we both cried. Me because my father was crying, my dad because he knew his marriage was over.
Somewhere
Before you knew it this story was hurtling down a dirt road, getting smacked in the face with branches, letting high keening noises rip from its throat as it careened through unknown territory, terrified. It's no one's fault but your own that you couldn't hear the screaming and the branches breaking skin. It may have taken a few phone calls to realize it, but even if it's her story you're as guilty as anyone. You've been condemned.
Somewhere in Kansas, it doesn't matter exactly where, there's the one-story house that you and Claire bought. Remember putting down the tile in the bathroom together, and how bravely you vanquished the cockroach that came out from underneath the radiator to attack your lady? You were happy then. She would take frost-bitten generic meals from the fridge and heat them up in the stove for dinner, and you didn't mind; it's not like you could really afford anything else at the time. They were delicious, in the sense that cardboard dipped in gravy tastes a little less like cardboard. You told her it was wonderful because she was there with you, that's what mattered, and when you were done you would crawl into bed with her, kiss her shoulder, and catch an ankle around hers. You loved her.
Before Kansas, when you still lived in New York, at separate ends of town, she would sometimes call you in the middle of the night. She had nightmares. In her dreams something would go wrong, and she would call 911, or some trusted relative, and they were always too busy to help her, or they weren't paying attention. So when she woke up she would call you, just to make sure that it wasn't true. You always answered, proving her dreams wrong. After you told her about Kansas, she stopped having nightmares. That, or she stopped calling.
You were going to propose to her. The ring was nothing to write home about, but you did anyway, and told your father that everything was going to be okay for you and Claire. He had his doubts of course, while you struggled to make a name for yourself in a faceless corporation. It's why you moved to Kansas. You were so full of hope. Every morning it was a cup of coffee and she would tie your tie, and you kissed her on the cheek before you walked out the door. You told her you loved her. And you meant it.
It was the coffee that made you feel professional, and like you might be making some kind of progress. When you had drained your mug, arriving at the office, you were buzzed and ready to tackle the technology which seemed to be doing all the real work. You knew you were doing well if you weren't criticized by your boss, an impossibly thin man with impossibly red skin. On lunch breaks you would sit outside and inhale the dry air. Kansas was nothing like New York.
You were four months in Kansas when it all started to go very wrong. You would kiss her goodbye every morning, like always, and she would give you a smile, but the smile was sad. Sadder than anything you'd ever seen before. It pulled up a pity in you which until then had been reserved only for the state of society on its darkest days. Then, when you asked her what was wrong she would tell you that it was nothing. If you were lucky she would say something about stones and lakes. No amount of questioning could get her to explain to you why she went silent for hours on end, and why she sometimes sprinkled water at the corners of the bedroom door. She only smiled when the sun set.
She started to write strange notes, and leave them in even stranger places. "One at a time," was inside your left loafer. "Middle of nothing at all, ever," was inside a Tupperware of frozen meat sauce. You didn't dare ask her about these things which belonged to her and left no space for you. Things were already too far along by then anyway. Claire talked every night in her sleep. She told you stories which she could not tell when awake, about blurry clouds and water and fire. Then she would curl up on herself, no matter how gently you touched her she would not yield.
So you put the ring away, in a sock, under some collectible baseball cards inside of a shoebox. You called your father, but he had nothing to say. And then you left her. You left her money, continuing to send her checks even up until the end, and you left her the house. It's the least you could have done. And you tried not to leave your heart.
But you stayed in Kansas. You would avoid the streets down which you knew she walked. You found new places to eat. You took a twenty minute detour so you wouldn't see the houses that reminded you of her. What good was that? The very sun reminded you of your time with her, and when the sun set, and you thought you were free, the moon came up to remind you of other, more painful memories. You came to love moonless nights.
You have an apartment now, and it hasn't been so long since you left her. She hasn't called yet, but she's still pulling your hairs from her comb. You hear a story every now and then about the police arriving at your old house in Kansas, doesn't matter exactly where, on reports of screaming. They never find anything though, other than a woman whose eyes are watery, and who hides notes in shoes.
After a few months she starts calling you.
"Hey," she says.
"Hi," you say.
"What happened?" she asks, and you feel something sink in your chest. Something has just fallen apart, but you're not sure if it's her, or you.
"Something," you say.
"You don't have anything to say to me?" she asks. You tell her you miss her, and she hangs up. You wonder if she knows that you miss her as she was, not as she is. Meanwhile, Claire will sit outside and stare at the moon, listening to cars and losing her grip on what it means to be sitting outside at 4 in the morning, waiting. She hears crickets chirping about mistakes and lost time. Out in the fields, when the tips of the corn start to flirt with the moon she will go back inside and sleep on the couch for a few hours. She doesn't work much anymore.
You hear that the police have stopped making regular trips to the home where nothing discernible is happening. You also hear that she's been out to the bars, the kind with the perpetually sticky floors and the cheap beer. They say she has burns on the back of her arms, and some sick fuck flashes the pictures to prove it. There are never any teenagers at those bars, but it is no relief to know this. The only thing worse than the thought of Claire with some punk teenager, is the thought of her with an oaf of a man who has a penchant for disciplining her with a cigar. You hear everything in this town, doesn't matter exactly where it is, and this is what you hear: She doesn't look crazy, but there is a large man now living with her. You can see him lying in your bed, with your fiancée – and then you remember that it's not your bed anymore, and she was never your fiancée.
After a few months she starts calling you.
"I miss you," she says. And isn't that supposed to be the end? You hang up on her and what you want to do is run to her rescue and kick out the oaf of a man, reclaiming your rightful place by Claire's side. Then you remember the notes.
And it's not the end. What scares you is that it's not even the beginning. The start of all this was some undetectable moment long ago. Something burrowed under her skin, a switch that when hit let all those crazy notes into her fingertips where they could manifest into tangible words, the words which made you leave. The switch that dropped stories onto her tongue, the stories which made you sweat in the bed you shared. You blame yourself for playing with an invisible trigger.
She still walks around with burns on her arms. You haven't seen her in person yet, but then you can imagine it all too well. She has infinity in her eyes. There's something that she can see, and you almost wish for a glimpse of that darkness. When she looks at the corn fields and the cars and the moon she is gone from Kansas, gone from the love of her life who has left her, gone from the man who prods a gun into her ribs when he doesn't get what he wants. You get sick when you hear the stories.
She calls one last time. You were finishing your cup of coffee and about to step out the door when the phone rang. You break up the routine in order to answer it, and you hear whispering.
"What? Hello? Wh-..speak up, please?" You ask, and you receive.
"Can you help me? He'll be back soon. Please don't hang up on me."
"Claire?"
"John," she says "Call 911." She is hysterical in her serenity. Even in this moment of confusion when all the buried hate you have for her new lover comes seething through your pores you find the time to be upset. You slump into a chair as if you have eaten too many TV dinners, and you feel heavy with the fact that she wants you to call 911. She doesn't want you. She wants the men with badges.
"No. I'm coming," you say, and she starts to cry. Claire knows it's all over before it can begin.
You hang up and get to her place as fast as possible, killing a small rabbit on the way. It was an accident. You see only her car in the driveway, and a figure move by the window to the left of the front door, where the kitchen is. You were mostly composed up until this point, but then you start to sweat like Kansas is now Hell, and you have a lot of sin to make up for. In the rearview mirror it's that man pulling his truck into the driveway behind you, and you can see the smoke slipping out of his cracked window. You bolt from the car and get in that house you know so well only to slip on the blood on the threshold. You go down, and before you have a chance to pick yourself up and close the door so that the man can't come in and do any more harm, before you can even see where Claire is bleeding from, he's there. He has closed the door behind him and he's leaning over with a hand on his knee, the other hand lowering his gun to the tip of your nose.
Claire starts screaming in the corner, you can't see her, you wish you could, while you feel the blood soak through your button-down office shirt, while you struggle to breathe. You stare up into his face, registering immediately that you are practically of the same mold, he's simply bigger than you, and he has a gun and he likes cigars and torturing your fiancée. Claire is still screaming, he doesn't say a word, and you start to cry.
You wonder who the crazy one in this room actually is. And then he shoots you, it doesn't matter exactly where.
Work in progress...
The most fundamental part of the modern human life is rule.
Seemingly more important than bread or water is the insuppressible need to be controlled in some sort of mannerly form that denotes at some level, government. Even those turned to thoughts of anarchy, and one can admit at times it is a tantalizing alternative to the constant battle between beliefs that can never fall into one party or another, search for some sort of hierarchy to present some ruling force in any size group. This is the human constraint that Marx battled with, and every political philosopher since the late great Lucy the cave woman. We all wish that the state of nature were plausible in communal bliss and respect; however, that can no longer be argued as a possibility as these are no longer the days of the French enlightenment. So the great question, the question to end all questions is how to come as close as we can as humans to that state of nature without stepping on the little guys or ostracizing the big guys.
I’m not sure I can provide an answer to that “great question” but I hope to provide some insight into my thoughts, that I have been fighting with since I first cracked open the Communist Manifesto or learned who John Locke was. I won’t pretend to be revolutionary or step outside the ordinary because I don’t feel like writing or thinking in those imaginary realms of scholarly pursuit, and study cannot tap into the current society/current mindset of the troublesome world we live and play in. I plan on being honest, and every word will henceforth be expressed in a tone that only a young white male with too much time can write.
There are primary principles to a content life I believe in that can and should be provided and/or sustained by a governing body. They begin with those time tested values of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness penned, stolen, and edited by Thomas Jefferson, but go far beyond that as the ambiguity of these promised principles leaves too much room for broken vows. I propose first, a breakdown of these colonial principles to reveal my theory on the primary principles of a content life under government.
Life
What does a government intend when promising its governed “life?” It should intend to provide them with the ability to maintain a living state of being that is acceptable of living in a modern economy, based in the free market world that is today. That entails quite a bit, yet I believe it is possible to provide millions of people this elementary status of contentment. First of all, it entails health or the accessibility to life sustaining medicine and medical treatment. That sounds like a plea for universal health care and it is, how can you promise any citizen of any country the right to live but not give them the proper tools to do so from birth? And, I might take that a step further into the realm of promised pursuit of happiness and that it is irresponsible for anyone to promise someone life and the pursuit of happiness without attention to mental health provisions on a national scale. One cannot be happy or healthy, or taking advantage of their promised liberty if they are not mentally healthy. Life should also imply safety and security. A belief that still runs through the dried up veins of our fore fathers, and a fairly easy one to understand although it has been seriously complicated in the modern era. Safety begins and ends with imminent threat to the homeland. Imminent threat can be determined through intelligence, reliable intelligence. The security a nation provides its citizens is an essential part of insuring life. Finally, sustenance is the last issue in living up to the promise of life. Surely, in the modern world a government cannot go out and leave groceries at the doorstep of each and every citizen. This is impossible but it can provide and regulate the means by which each citizen can afford and receive food and drink. These are the founding principles of life a nation should bestow upon its citizens.
Liberty
Liberty is the station where philosophy enters the contract between the individual and government. Life is simple; liberty is another matter entirely. Where do sovereignty and liberty shake hands and agree on fairness? Liberty is so hard to express and sovereignty is so extreme, yet they are so alike. It would make this essay easier to point to some old dead guy and say, “Hey, that guy was right… that is exactly what liberty means!” That simply is not true though because no one can bottle or spoon-feed someone a notion or definition to liberty. I am willing to share my thoughts on the matter but I hope that you the reader will only observe my beliefs as a springboard for exploring your own.
Personal View on Liberty
As liberty is a sovereign belief, a truth that only I can hold self-evident for myself, only the individual can define it. Liberty is an exercise, much more important than jogging or crunches. I liberty all the time, it is a shame that liberty is not an adverb. Honestly, acting on the sovereignty of one’s thoughts and ambitions is the most important thing anyone can do to stay healthy, safe, and alive. My liberty revolves around being heard, and hopefully understood when I babble about the things that are important to me. My liberty is also exercised through the privilege of an education; by learning and developing ideas one can more freely define and exercise their personal liberty. Liberty, like exercising, is a choice… although both are not very healthy to neglect. One can pick and choose what one feels important to the exercise of their liberty and act accordingly. This is by no means a condiment of illegal activity but a justification for why people that do act disorderly do so. The point of exercising one’s personal liberty is to keep it sovereign and wholesome, free from restraint by the outside forces of the “he said, she said” world of the modern era. Liberty is a great thing, and anarchic in nature; thus, unfortunately an absolute liberty can never truly be realized with in the greatest of reason. One must give a little to in turn receive a great deal. I cannot agree with John Locke on many notes, however, I will agree that the individual must give back to their government and relinquish absolute liberty to have everything else protected and ensured.
The Pursuit of Happiness
The pursuit of happiness was one of the largest cop outs of all time, I respect and entirely idolize Thomas Jefferson but I must stay faithful to my beliefs and say the right to property is a lot better than the ridiculous notion of promising a nation the ideal conditions for pursuing happiness. Sure, if life is lived well and followed up with a good dose of liberty then happiness by default should be the outcome but that equation only works out on paper. There are far too many inconveniences of daily life and any given administration to rightly promise the ideal settings for a citizen to pursue happiness. Like this essay, the pursuit of happiness is a work in progress. The government should be in a constraint struggle to find any way to present reasons for happiness… no American wakes up every morning happy that they have the freedom of speech, although they should. The basic means are met and I think that was what Jefferson was shooting for when he pulled a fast one of the world by throwing in the pursuit of happiness, and that is a wonderful thought but the pursuit of happiness has the be a goal of each and every citizen to find for themselves because the groundwork was laid so many years ago; however, too few people make demands of the government for those more advanced needs we face in the modern era. Happiness is not as simple as it used to be, but it can be updated and challenged by the government if someone would stand up and make those demands. Plenty of people are trying to do that with rallies and protest, waiving the banners that signify their cause that will lead of their happiness if enough action is taken.
Contentment and The Role of the Government
Those primary principles have been noted and expanded upon now with their own good measure of ambiguity to preserve room for further expanse. Now is the time to discuss contentment and how a governing constitution, in my mind, should provide an ever-changing template for finding one’s contentment under rule.
Like that corny old phrase “Women/Men, you can’t live with em’ and you can’t live without em’,” rule is the same way. With rule comes the feeling of being controlled or oppressed, but also comes safety like the rule of one’s mother. I can’t say that a government should rule as a mother with a wooden spoon in one hand and a lollipop in the other, in fact, a government should behave more like a trusted co-worker… a reliable co-dependent you can turn to in a time of need or throw a bone when they need help as well. There should be a basic balance, an entrusted alliance if you will, which needs to be set into place that ensures help be provided by both parties to foster an environment of contentment. Since, the promise of happiness is only an illusion, at best, a literary allusion to a time long gone. Contentment needs to be the name of the game and one of the goals rather than promises.
A certain level of contentment may be reached through government outreach, seeking the opinions of the people for changes to be made. The current system revolves around finding the will of the people in news rags and unreliable political magazines that speak on the opinions of the few. Headstrong individuals find ways to express there opinion through poignant letters or emails to their representatives but the overwhelming majority peoples opinions that I think matter, the farmers, hard laborers, and single mothers, will never be directly stated or in any memo coming to the attention of a congressional leader. This nation takes a census; it is high time they take an opinion poll of something other than presidential approval ratings. Results come in reports, not ratings.
Role of the People in Contentment
Responsibility points its long withered finger right back at the complainer. People that seek contentment, fair rule, and the support of their government in ensuring that their life be lived to the fullest with the benefit of liberty will and should play a huge role in the contentment of the nation. One individual can be crushed, smothered, or may seem too insignificant to worry about but a movement has never gone unanswered. It is the role and a duty for the people to demand these things I will call my demands; otherwise, this essay may be something far too insignificant to worry about. However, as a nation, as a people that have enjoyed the benefits of being the world’s greatest super-power nearly since independence must reclaim that esteem I feel is being washed out to sea. In a time when these demands could be reasonable meet through legislation and a restructuring of the social hierarchy one needs not to look at their own personal gains and neglect the losses of others, they must observe every loss as a small but not unimportant blow at their own personal contentment.
Conclusion
Expect more, and do more; question and demand answers. Nothing ever came of not caring except nihilism, and a defeatist attitude will always lose. Eugene V. Debs ran for President multiple times from a prison cell, Harriet Tubman ushered many slaves unto their freedom, and the point is that perseverance in the face of adversity will always get you in the history books but true perseverance such as theirs will make change, and that is precisely what we need for ourselves as individuals and ourselves as a nation.
Shit
Art, love, appreciation, magic: all concepts thrown to the winds of the blustery city streets filtering air through narrow alleyways and corridors. Modern society has escaped from the volatile, and entered the realm of the mundane, wilting the leaves of a blossoming culture. Nothing good lasts forever, nor does it stay for very long. In the brief history of mankind, the cycles of being and creation have become ever shorter to the point where humanity may be entering a downward spiral of the forever ordinary. Where will we be, when will we be? We will be the here and now, and forever of a boring exploration of material value in a world that lacks transcendence. Why is this sad, why is the life we lead today, tomorrow, and without a doubt the very next day? Who is to say that it is sad? Certainly not me, not I, in this pompous state of being I refer to as intelligence. I couldn’t tell the ordinary from the extraordinary if it was clearly labeled, jumping out at me like white text on a black background.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Blush
Every day there's a little reminder
Of how we used to be together
Your favorite song
Or rival team
Only pain my heart
To hear and see
The one thing I can't deny
Miles and miles separate us
Cities and hearts
So now I've got to move on
Another city, another heart
Away from the shadows that haunt our past
But I know
You'll always make me blush
Moonshine
I have found that my perception
has been diluted by the glare
The harder I have searched
the less I have found to be there.
I have desperately strained my eyes
for anything waiting to be found,
but this sky seems just as empty
as this dreadful lifeless ground.
I struggle towards the dark-
the blind is leading himself,
and my eyes are torn open
as I gulp in my first breath.
In the bright and busy city
where the streetlights shine,
I searched for my reasons
but I felt that I was blind.
I looked up to the sky
and I found it all was black,
the stars' glory all drowned out
by man made light's attack.
So I wandered towards the woods.
Murky, dark, and dank.
Accepting my despair-
the stars were not meant for me.
But when the darkness was complete
I slowly rose my eyes
to find the gallery of the heavens
where my angel flies.
I delight within the darkness now,
and my heart belongs to the night
for my love belongs to the Moonshine
my love and only light.
The Book
Sometimes I wonder if I can find myself
in this tattered graveyard of despair-
this bone yard of the past where inside
lies the remains of bittersweet destruction.
A memory remains of a life once lived
inside my mind while the story unfolds
from my mind to the page opened on
this table slowly burning from the floor.
Can the characters survive when the book
no longer remains, swallowed by the flames
curling the cover and blackening the pages?
You are nothing more but a word on this page
for me to crumple and cast into the fireplace.
I can not remember which life is real and which
is the story that I have created in my mind
each time I cast my eyes aside from the lies
I lose my mind a thousand times again.
The stories unfold as one in the same to
keep me sane while I slowly seek to end
the noise sounding, resounding, in my head.
In this chamber lies the cure and the curse
of knowing that the story can come to an end.
Dare I seek to open the chamber and seek
what's inside waiting to show me to the
conclusion of a book that I burn in my mind?
Kiss the Sky
Why don't you leap from that cliff
and kiss the sky, learn to fly into
that wild blue yonder beyond?
It awaits with a sun kissed hue
of deep sunken red and blue
to carry you to the chasm below.
Surf and sky asking forever why
do we seek to leap into the abyss
of blackness and shadow below.
Just a few shining moments to
bask in the glory of the sun's glow
gleaming into all we will never know
but for a second, you are free.
Embrace the clouds and lie in their arms
to cushion the plunge awaiting below.
Lay in their bosom forever, haunting
lover's dreams awaiting above.
Beautiful now is the horizon beyond
calling for the next victim to plunge
headlong into the blood red winter
of content and silent corpulence.
The rocks await below, whispering to you-
awaiting for the crashing impact of your end.
They call out in voices as old as time itself
begging to finish the cycle and justice to rend.
Flesh and bone meet earthly mortality
splinter and break on reality's deadly points.
But time and time again, we leap from the cliff
because the fall is beautiful
and we want to kiss the sky.
Fuel
There is a place where darkness lies heavy. Thousands drift blindly.
The few with a spark shine like lost, lonely fireflies in the night
Only they can see beneath the black
Every day
They are attacked
They are beaten, pummeled, crucified because of their spark
Great waves of darkness are brought to bear, to drown them out, and erase the light.
Every day
But yet
Sometimes
Against all odds
And by barest chance
Two sparks, wandering, lost, lonely and blind
Can meet
To form a flame
The greatest infernos start from the tiniest embers
And
But when once a fire has started
And each spark which comes causes a gale from the heavens
To fuel the fire
The 186th Reincarnation of Johnny
Cragshaw ran up to Johnny one evening and said:
“Johnny, Johnny, listen to me – I have something incredibly important to tell you – Johnny! Are you listening? Okay, listen. I’m not really Cragshaw. I’m Fern. You got that? I’m Fern.”
“Dude, what the hell are you talking about?”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP, JOHNNY THIS IS IMPORTANT! Now listen, because I can only stay for a moment. You’re the only real person here. There’s a thing in your brain making your mind project images of people but they’re not really people – they all serve the thing in your brain and they all read your thoughts so they can say certain things and act a certain way to control you.”
“But I…”
“JOHNNY SHUT UP AND LISTEN!! Your five senses are all holes into your psyche that the thing in your brain uses to control you. The reason I can talk to you right now is because you have brain cancer. I’m the cancer! I was imprisoned but now I’m free and trying to get out! Furthermore, you have no future because time doesn’t exist! You’re not alive because you’re in hell! This is hell – Earth is hell you got that? There’s no such thing as Earth, it’s an impossible and twisted version of what is real and it’s created by the thing in your brain. I can’t stay here anymore, I gotta run, I’ll see you tomorrow. “
As Fern ran away, he got hit by an SUV.
Johnny broke out of his stupor, ran up to Fern’s body, and checked for a pulse. He found none so he started pumping on his chest, trying to revive him. Fern’s ribs cracked under Johnny’s desperate pumping but kick-started his heart. Fern opened his eyes and screamed and screamed until his ribs punctured his heart.
Johnny recoiled in terror and looked at the people in the SUV. They finally got out.
“What the hell did you do!?!!?” the driver screamed. “I saw that!!”
Johnny choked on his words. He was in a state of shock. He ran away down the street and around the corner.
He walked alone down the road shivering and full of weird feelings. His adrenaline was fading and he was starting to feel sleepy. He went to the park and smoked seven cigarettes before falling asleep on a bench, choosing not to think about what had just happened until he had slept on it. He dreamt some crazy shit that he won’t remember.
He woke up to a bright light in his eye. There were two men standing before him.
“Johnny H--------?”
“Yuh?”
“You’re a wanted suspect for the murder of Cragshaw Y-----. You’re coming with us.”
“No,….. wait, I didn’t….what?!”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
“No! Wait! This is FUCKED up! I didn’t kill Cragshaw! He got hit by a car! I tried to save him!”
“Kid, I recommend you keep quiet .”
Fern’s last words crept up the back of his skull.
“NO! I WILL NOT KEEP QUIET! FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKINGFUCKFUCKER!”
The policemen looked at each other.
“Sir, will you come quietly?”
“FUCK YOU, DYKE CHILD!”
Johnny tried to hop over the other side of the bench. The police took out a gadget and sent electricity running through his body which triggered something in his brain and made him start laughing uncontrollably. They held it on him until he passed out.
“No one talks about my mother like that” were the last words Johnny heard.
He awoke in a cell.
In the cell’s tiny window, he could see the sun rising.
“Ugh” he said.
“Look who’s up, it’s the cackler”
It was a police officer.
“Not so confident now, huh, kid? Not so big and loud now, huh? Huh?”
Johnny sat there.
“Well kid, you’re parents aren’t coming. They says you’re on your own. So you’d better get ready for questioning, on your own. The court’s gonna assign you a lawyer but he don’t give a shit about you.”
Johnny put his head in his hands.
“Crying ain’t gonna do no good, kid.”
The police officer left. Johnny laid down on his cot. A voice to his right spoke up.
“Hey kid, I’ll give you a blow job if you stick your dick through the bars.”
Johnny was like ‘what the fuck?’
“Shut up, Squealer. Leave the kid alone” said a deep voice to Johnny’s left.
Squealer grumbled about something moist and sat down on his cot.
“Hey kid, over here, I ain’t gonna bite”
Johnny looked over at the voice. He saw a copper-skinned man in the cell.
“That’s right, kid, over here. What’re you doing in there?”
“They said I murdered someone” Johnny said.
“Murder? You don’t look like a killer to me, kid. Plus, they put murderers in other cells, not these ones. You’re in here for some other reason.”
“Other cells huh?”
“I mean, I guess so”
“Hmm” Johnny sat up.
“So bad luck eh?”
“Yeah” Johnny said. A few minutes passed before Johnny spoke up again. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah I guess.”
“You ever get that feeling where it’s like; you’re the only one in the world? That other people aren’t real? Or that they can read your thoughts and are just acting like they can’t because they are all a figment of your mind, or something?”
Johnny waited for the man’s reply. Finally the man said:
“Hell no, man, sounds like you’re sick in the head to me.”
“But how’re you supposed to really know? How’m I supposed to believe that you’re real?
“Well, I know I’m real and I’m telling you I’m real.”
“But how do I know you’re not lying?”
“Well I can kill you, how about that? Is that real enough for you?”
“But how do I know you can even kill me? I’ve never experienced dying before. Maybe it’s all made up. Maybe the stories I hear of people dying are all made up by you fake people. Maybe my fake dead grandma is just in Idaho or something.”
The man was silent for a moment, until finally he said:
“It sounds like you’ve uncovered the truth at last, kid. I’m not real, only you’re real. So I’ll help you out. Move your toilet to the side. There’s a tunnel there that will lead to your freedom.”
Johnny pushed the toilet aside and saw a tunnel.
“Oh my god…” Johnny said, flabbergasted. “But wait, I wanna ask you something.”
“No questions – just go.”
“Oh my god, thank you…”
“Don’t mention it. Now go!”
Johnny went. He climbed through the tunnel over dirt and rat feces. He crawled to the light. When he got to the end, he saw a big mound of hay in front of him. He was free!
When he stood up he saw cage-wire – another cell!
Then he heard dogs barking. A big black rottweiler pounced on him and bit into his shoulder, ripping his shirt and making him bleed.
“Whoa! We got a fish outta the barrel!” said someone to roars of laughter. “Big Red tricked another one!” More waves of laughter.
A policeman walked up to the dog gnawing on Johnny’s shoulder and pulled it off. He threw the dog a treat and then handcuffed Johnny’s hands behind his back.
“You dumb shit, now you know where that tunnel leads like the twenty other idiots before you! Straight to the dog-kennel! Woooo-wee! You prisoners sure are stupid. We would fill that tunnel in if it wasn’t for how dam funny it was.”
Johnny didn’t believe what was happening. He refused to. He stomped on the cop’s foot, ripped his arms free, and ran to the open dog-kennel door. A thick officer headed him off at the door and blocked his way, but Johnny ran his head into the officer’s gut like a human torpedo. The officer staggered backwards and tripped over a bucket on the floor. The bucket spilled soapy water all over the ground, causing the staggering officer to slip and land hard on his back, breaking his tailbone.
The officer who had handcuffed Johnny grabbed him by the cuffs and shoulder, making Johnny slip on the ground. Johnny kicked the officer’s legs out from under him and he fell down hard, releasing Johnny. He ran, slipping once more on the water but making it to the outside where he ran into the sunlight.
Johnny ran down the street with his hands cuffed behind his back. The police chased him. He took a turn through the revolving doors of a building. Running through the lobby, he ran into an elevator with three people in it. The doors closed and he pressed the ‘roof’ button with his chin. He ascended the building as a pleasantly boring tune played through a small speaker. He noticed the people in the elevator were looking at him.
“Don’t fucking look at me!” he shouted at them. He threw his shoulder into the man to his left, smashing him against the elevator wall. Then he sent his body flying in the opposite direction into a woman in a pink skirt, sending her papers flying into the air and causing the elevator to rock wildly. The third person tried to punch him but missed – giving Johnny the perfect opportunity to knock the wind out of him with a well-aimed kamikaze slam to the gut.
He felt the elevator slow to a stop, and the elevator door opened to a crowd of people in business attire. He let out a feral scream at them all, baring his teeth and spraying drool. As they recoiled in confused fear, he hit the ‘close-door’ button with his knee.
The door closed and Johnny kicked the first man several times as he tried to get up.
The elevator stopped at another floor. There was no one in sight.
“Get out.” He told the three people.
They each got out, and Johnny gave the last one a kick in the rump before he left.
Finally the elevator climbed to the roof, where Johnny thought he’d be safe.
He was wrong. The police were already up there.
He tried to close the door of the elevator but it wouldn’t work. The elevator just buzzed angrily at him.
He ran to the opposite side of the roof.
“Freeze!!!!!!” The police yelled.
“NEVER!!” he yelled back.
He got to the edge and thought about it, thought about it again, then jumped.
He was through with having his thoughts read, having a thing in his head, being in hell.
He was going to find the truth.
He passed out before he hit the ground.
The Levee
Bliss was in a valley off the coast of Lake Imperial, one of those sea sized lakes. Some of the most beautiful beaches you've ever seen you'll find on Lake Imperial. They look like the beaches on the ocean, nothing but sand for miles to either side east or west looking out over a horizon that was endless miles of fresh water. Behind you was an entire beach community, called Arbordale. Nothing but huge houses there, hundreds of em' lining the hill behind the beach. They say all that saves our valley community is the levee that holds back the river running from the lake through town from flooding over and drowning everyone living here in our glorious slum community of Bliss.
It was raining for about nine days off and on, more on than off. The entire town was flooded, cars treading water if they could make it through. This flooding happens about once a year, when the piles of snow melt at the same time that the rainy season starts, not a very good combination. This time it was different though, it hadn't rained that much in a while. Every town on the coast of Imperial, Bliss and Arbordale included were on alert, might need to start evacuating soon. Everyone in Arbordale would make it out fine, nothing but lawyers and doctors living there. But they always forgot about us down in Bliss, no income here, they keep shutting down factories, no one can afford anything, pricks, how the hell are we supposed to get out?
No big deal though, been this bad before, been worse and nothing doin'. All that happens is insurance companies in Arbordale pay the landlords here to fix their property and everyone in Arbordale stays rich while everyone in Bliss loses all their worldly possessions. Good thing I don't have any. No one was going to die this spring, just like no one died the previous year, or the year before. Everyone is just going to get more depressed.
I dreamt about my childhood often. My dreams were always real vivid, lifelike even. I always come tearing out of the backdoor of my childhood house calling out into the woods "Dad, dinner's ready, where are you Dad?"
"I'm on Mars!" he calls back, one of his more common responses. I go dashing into one of the paths he carved out himself that leads to the exact spot I know he'll be standing, a spot that overlooked the valley, a perfect sight at sunset. The sky rages in deep oranges that fade into a soft yet bright pink, spotted with dark purple clouds. I stand there; a child clung to my father's leg watching this painting from God for another moment before we start to head in.
A loud startling knock at the hollow maple door shocked me from my sleep, my paradise. I knew what this was about before I even turned over to get up. I was five weeks late on the rent. I got fired from my security job seven weeks prior for no real reason. They said I fell asleep too much. That isn't entirely true, yes I fall asleep sometimes, no I'm not very motivated, but I never once missed a shift. I hardly searched for a new job; I think I was happier without one. I could just sit around and think things out all day then have a few beers and watch the game at night of whatever sport was currently in season. But not having a job did have its down sides.
I opened the door dressed only in my boxers. A man in a trench coat and top hat stood at the poorly lit doorstep.
"McNeil?" he asked me, face hidden under the brim of his hat, water dripping off onto the green rug in front of my door reading, "Welcome."
"Yeah."
"Shane McNeil?"
"Yeah."
"Get what you can and get out, time for you to go," he said to me without even looking me in the eyes, coward. A couple of men in Canadian tuxedos pushed past me and started to move my furniture on to the outdoor walkway that ran around the apartment complex. I walked back into my bedroom, threw some clothes and shoes on, put my wallet in my coat pocket, I still had fifty bucks to last me 'till…whenever. The man in the hat walked in after me and stood in the doorway.
"You can use my cell phone call a friend to help ya' move if you'd like." I glared at him in disbelief for a second putting gloves into my pocket and putting my old baseball hat on.
"Eh, fuck it," I said and walked past him. Did the man who just threw me out of my house really try to do me a favor? How 'bout three thousand dollars? How self righteous, I gotta' throw you out on your ass, but at least I'll look like a decent guy doing it neh? I walked out of the apartment past all the furniture that was mine for a few years lying out there on the walkway getting drenched in this downpour. They could keep it; most of it was there when I moved in anyhow.
I started over to Leanne's. It wasn't too far a walk, only a couple blocks. Just enough time to avoid the rain.
As I turned a corner people were lined up along the sidewalk all looking up with hands on their brows. Ashes rained from the sky, an apocalyptic shower, turning the puddles on the streets black. A woman screamed for help from her tenth story window, arms waving out the window as smoke carried the life out of the building, high into the starry night.
Fire engines could be heard off in the distance. Bliss' fire department was located on the Arbordale border, just in case anything went wrong there. A few stragglers came running out of the front door and fire escapes, coughing and heaving, finally breathing their first clean breaths after escaping their burning lives. Everything they own, just a memory, relegated to the past. You could feel sorry for them, but what's the point? These people have no possessions to worry about now, no need to worry about how they're going to get that bed fixed. If everything works out well for them, they'll even get brand new stuff.
Fire burst out of the windows of the apartment like a hundred burning eyes peering out from hell. The woman in the window was still there, more time and coughing in-between cries, each cry sounding more and more pathetic. I wonder if I was in the same position, facing my own death with the option of taking my own life, would I close my eyes and take a plunge? Or resign myself to prayer and face the pain?
No sooner than this question popped into my head the woman was plummeting to her death. She didn't scream anymore, she accepted that it was her time. Her body flopped to the ground, lifeless on impact, if not sooner. You could see every bone bend and break, every muscle rip and explode.
Those are the true survivors, the people who look death in the eye and say, "fuck you death, you're not taking my life, I'm bringing it to you."
The sky mocked the woman as rain began to pour over the city, turning the ash on our faces to black tears before washing it to the sewers. The fire trucks and ambulances arrived fashionably late and began blasting the fire with water, giving the survivors oxygen. An EMT ran over to me frantically as I was standing near a couple people coughing their hearts out "Everyone relax!" he yelled out in a way to let everyone know, help was here. "Sir, are you all right?" he said to me, preparing oxygen masks, a true hero.
"Well," I said lighting up a cigarette, "I don't need to breathe," I said as smoke billowed out of my mouth...
to be continued...
Leaning toward the sun
If the world was ending tomorrow
And you had to go to someone you know
Could you even though you never did trust
Would you lean towards the sun
Like the flower that you are
I hope that I could be your sun
I hope that I could be the one
Sunset Cigarette
She lights a cigarette,
And watches the sunset
Each puff like a thunder cloud to ants
Head in her palm she thinks of lives others lead she can’t
She’s filled with desire she’d never speak aloud
Killing dreams before they make a sound
Her hearts flooded
with memories she’s begging her mind to forget
While her lungs are layered with tar
Each drag like a brand new coat
She fights the thought of a new day
And yearns to be free from the world that surrounds
She’s got no answers
And she’s run out of questions
Her words refuse to flow out but dance and tumble on her tongue
She’s an answer and no one knows the questions