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Monthly Archives: February 2017

Let’s call this one Gibberish, for dramatic effect.

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We are what we make ourselves.

Prophets. Martyrs. Fools.

There is no difference.

If it sells, it sells.

And the more grotesque, the better.

Greater pain equals greater possibilities.

Blood is not just blood, it’s profit.

It has and will always be.

The grand illusion.

Story time before the big sleep.

You see,

faith can be a very clumsy thing.

A very scary thing.

But it doesn’t make a difference either way.

Prophets will stay prophets.

Martyrs will stay martyrs.

And fools remain fools.

How does declaring a child a man make him any less a child?

It doesn’t.

But it sells, so it sells.

Eventually,

you get it.

We were the monsters lurking under the bed.

We do not want, but accept these things.

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Unintentionally rude.

Little disheartened sighs.

Incapable of speech.

And worrisome.

Fearful of what, exactly, is unknown.

Trying not to incite confusion.

Attempts not to quarrel only create greater tension.

Anxiety.

Disdain.

We do not want, but accept these things.

In silence,

there is no argument but a stalemate.

Like a fruitless game of chess.

On egg shells,

we walk,

stiff kneed,

toes clenched,

trying not to crumble.

Trying desperately to surrender.

Our sympathy and concern,

marred by our inability to grasp the others discontent.

We slowly close our eyes.

And wake in the morning,

anew.

Staring at the Blank White Ceiling.

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In a perfume spoiled bedroom.
On a rain soaked summer’s Sunday.
Under a bleach white canopy.
Lay a girl ensconced.

Holding close, her Care Bear, she pondered.
When would be the right time to tell the truth?
Or.
Was the truth even worth telling?

Staring at the blank white ceiling.
It had felt right at the time.
Almost natural.
As a result of her seeming neglect.

Though now looking back – his eyes,
his lips, salty from pork-chops –
the way he abruptly reached for her crotch,
now all seemed wrong.

How could he (i.e. not the crotch grabber) do this to her?
Her mind shifting gears now.
Forgetting the one night loss of self,
and remembering why she’d felt so alone.

It wasn’t her fault.
She wasn’t the one who left.
She was the one making the real sacrifice.
Yet why it all felt so wrong she couldn’t quite pin point.

Her makeup had always been done.
His needs, to her knowledge, were always met.
And she always made sure to tell him, she loved him, didn’t she?
Yet now lying in bed, she couldn’t fight back the tears.

Damn him and his selfishness.
How could she be so stupid to believe his lies.
She kept telling herself that they were lies, lies, lies.
But knew deep down they weren’t, they couldn’t have been.

After confessing the truth, over the white cordless telephone, her chest felt lighter.
A warm wave of relief quickly rushed through her veins.
A relief that she knew would not last.
How could anything last in a world so concerned with change?

It was nearly 10 o’clock, which meant reruns of her favorite television sitcom would be on soon.
Wiping her face with a rice pad, and brushing her teeth, she knew she did the right thing.
Telling the truth gave her validation, a confidence that could not be smeared.
She was tired of being the so called doormat.

She lay, transfixed, to the images and sounds emitting from the pleasure box on her nightstand.
It was the one where Eric and Donna share their first kiss.
It reminded her of many kisses that had been kissed.
And left her befuddled all the same.

Not liking this feeling she turned off the television.
Awake in the dark she could feel her heartbeat, beat-beat, beat-beat.
This was and was not her fault – she’d never eat a pork-chop again.
What really hurt, though, was that things would never be the same.

Yet in the back of her mind.
Tucked away in the dream she had that night.
There was this feeling.
A truth, that she was alright with that.

 

Smiles of Uncertainty

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The world is filled with people.

People filling space.

The only thing separating the people,

is hierarchy.

Other than that, there isn’t really that much else.

Just a world full of people.

People filling space.

All of them, vexed with smiles of uncertainty, trying not to fuck up.

Sirens

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Far off in the distance they scream.

“Someone is going to die!”

Passing by the window now is another.

“Someone is going to die!”

Turning to page 359, I’m reminded.

“Someone is going to die!”

And I could describe the flashing lights.
Or the screeching of tires.
The anxiety.
The awesome routine of the Ambulance Driver.

Though my better judgement tells me other wise.

Not do describe the pain.
The wailing.
Or the fact that Sirens are neutral.
And that red is the only conceivable color to match.

“Someone is going to die!”

Turning to page 404.

“Someone is going to die!”

And another passes.

“Someone is going to die!”
“Someone is going to die!”
“Someone is going to die!”
“Someone is going to die!”

Farther off in the distance now,

like a tribal chant, you can almost dance to it’s rhythm.

WEE-WOO, WEE-WOO
Wee-Woo, Wee-Woo
wee-woo, wee-woo
…

Kings will be Kings no matter the King.

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It’s ironic, really.

The way I wanted to do it,
wasn’t the way to do it,
until it was the way to do it.

And by that time,
I was already checked out.
My psyche in jump cuts like Breathless.

Plugging away in the same…old…fashion,
as those before me.
My movements were those of a machine.

Until it was the way to do it.
That which once wasn’t the way to do it.
The way that I’d wanted to do it in the first place.

If you’re confused.
That’s good.
Because I was too.

When it occurred to me one day.
The irony.
How kings will be kings no matter the king.

Lucky for me,
I knew this.
I also knew this.

You can dress the kid in the rags of a jester, but don’t expect his tricks to be any good!

A Life Altering Depression that led to a Conscious Awareness of Choice.

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If you lay in bed long enough,
eventually,
you understand that there’s no reason to leave.

When you don’t have the answers,
for the way you’re feeling,
you understand that it’s better to give them what they want to hear.

After you’ve made a decision,
hastily,
that feels like anything but,
all that’s left is to wait for the consequence.

If you hide yourself away long enough,
eventually,
you understand that the calls will stop coming.

And even if you had the answers,
for the way you’re feeling,
you understand they wouldn’t even make a difference to the big picture.

After you’ve checked the mail,
twice a day,
for what feels like months,
all that’s left is to accept the denial letter, denying you back, from where you fled.

…

They don’t want you anymore.
They won’t trust you anymore.

Do they love you?
Or.
Are they just putting up with more of your bullshit?

They want you to succeed.
Remember when they said, “remember us when you’re famous!”

Did they ever realize the pressure?
Or.
Weren’t they just trying to inspire you to believe your own self-worth?

…

If you lay in bed long enough,
eventually,
you understand that it’s difficult to be anywhere but.

When you still don’t have the answers,
for giving up on the plan,
you understand that maybe it’s better to give them truth instead of lies.

After your insecurity turns to shame,
and fear is watered down,
a fire begins to burn,
and all that’s left to do is coax it.

If you hide yourself away long enough,
eventually,
you understand that it’s your turn to make the calls.

And while contemplating the answers,
for the way that you’re feeling,
you understand that the big picture doesn’t give a damn either way.

After your shame turns to curiosity,
and fear fizzles out,
a flame can turn to wildfire,
and all that’s left to do is decide.

Will you get out of bed?
Or will you fake this grave till you make it?

Nobody cares, really.
Nobody, except the one’s you love.

Despair comes for us all,
but,
it doesn’t have to – always – be the present constant,
in fact,
no matter how hard you try to make it seem…

This is life.

There is choice.

This is not a heads or tails game.

Dive into the sun.

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It will be long before
you figure me out,
for I have just begun.

With each days end
that saunters in,
I’ll crave the setting sun.

And by the light
that shines through trees,
in shadows I shall run.

To see and hear
the simple things,
the hummingbird has sung.

So that is where
I’ll stay awhile,
without a word of glee.

Without talk
and without walk,
a dolce harmony.

Where there is no
tell of time,
oh what a sight to see.

And like the spray
of oceans breath,
embrace the mystery.

But if and when
I wander back,
oh what a tale to tell.

For there will be
no better time,
than those that I had fell.

And in the burning
yellow light,
from which I had once run.

It’s there I’ll sing
unto the sea,
and dive into the sun.