No Truth Like A Bullet

Spoon, Squirrel, Satellite

2006-05-25T16:29:00.000-04:00

An exercise in interdependent yet completely unrelated things. Again, not very uplifting. I've promised a story of puppies and rainbows. We'll see...

- Spoon -
The spoon dipped into the colonel’s cereal. He was a Lucky Charms kind of man, had been ever since he was little when such things are still being set in that stone they call a brain. The spoon’s chemical makeup was much simpler than that of man, but it had evolved nicely. Functional and effective, simple and refined, the spoon could not make a mistake. Unless it broke. But then there were always more to replace it. The daily newspaper was spread before the colonel, flipped to the weather, but he wasn’t having any of it. The spoon reflected silently on all the day’s headlines as they were glossed over, forgotten. The reflection was a little cloudy, with all that milk and sugar obscuring the surface.
Over mouthfuls of sugary marshmallows the ego of a man complained to his assistant, asking him meaninglessly rhetorical questions like Can you believe this? What’s this world coming to? The assistant nodded and dipped a spoon of his own. It would be nearly half a day before he was able to eat again. The war was time-consuming. Nothing would come of it and staring at the colonel’s spoon he wondered how many people and their spoons were twisted and deformed as a result. Of course he could look up the statistics – probably even find a section on spoons – but knew the facts were meaningless.
The assistant threw a carefully printed request for a tactical strike before the colonel, imploring him to sign it with haste. Ahhh, another one, he said then fished a pen from his breast pocket with his free hand and signed the form. He was a righty and he’d signed with his left. The right hand was occupied, obviously. The spoon, if it could have, would have cried.

- Squirrel -
While the squirrel searched for his buried treasure, there was a whistling in the air. He paid no attention to the sound, but a nagging in the back of his tiny brain screamed for him to do otherwise. Why worry about sounds like that when a) they probably had nothing to do with him and b) he has better things to worry about, like where he hid his last stash of nuts. Not words. The squirrel had no need for words. Or missiles. Like the kind that was heading for his home. Well, that’s a bit of a melodramatic overstatement. The missile wasn’t headed for his home exactly, just the hundred-mile killzone surrounding it.
Of course he was incapble of realizing any of this himself, at least, that’s what they would like to believe. Squirrels would get there too, all it took was a little time. With expert skill he excavated another antiquity of the edible kind, peeling its crust away slowly to taste and relish every morsel of the sweetness inside. In terms of squirrels and what their apparently limited capacity for thought or higher-level thought processes, this was his heaven. Soon he’d be introduced to the truth. That the nuts and the seasons and the slumber in between were all there was.

- Satellite -
The satellite was cold, lonely. It was years since he had had any contact with his makers. He’d devoured fuel to get to where he was now, but felt as if there was nothing left to enjoy. Content for a time, he began to grow restless, staring vacantly at the void. The satellite knew they thought it stared back at you. The satellite knew better. It just went on forever and ever, affecting the illusion that some sacred meaning was locked in all those millions of light years. There was no question of visibility, or days or weather patterns. Things moved the way they had for decades, centuries, millennia.
In this particular moment, however, the satellite was summoned. Awoken from his empty dreams he found renewed purpose. He would get to exercise the near infinite knowledge and specialty he had been created for. The solar panels attached to his sides spread like wings and he righted himself with the overstocked energy he had. There was no time for error or complaint. The satellite had a job to do and he was beckoned to perform flawlessly. The makers would be pleased, the satellite knew. For once he was good for more than just soaking up the sun’s rays, storing them for a day the satellite believed would never come, yet hoped with all his being would give him opportunity to be free of it all. The satellite wondered silently what it would be like if the earth governing its gravitational patterns were to simply cease to exist.

A Careless Chortle

2006-05-18T01:11:00.000-04:00

That's right, I said "chortle." This is one of the crazy ass pieces I had to write for my fiction workshop this semester. It's probably one of my best in that it gets straight to the point. There's still a lot I'd like to develop in it and it's by no means the final version. I know, it seems like none of these are actually the final version... but someday! In any case, I hope whoever is reading this (if ANYBODY is reading this) enjoys it. It's about... the state of today's world, I guess. And how the most random and insignificant person can get sucked into tragic and terribly overwhelming events without a why or a how. WOO! Real pick-me-upper! Later.

A Careless Chortle

He held his face to the dingy fluorescent tubes above and tried desperately to keep his nose from bleeding. The bulbous headphones wrapped around his head were still blasting a jazzy groove of distortion and feedback and I wonder something about the tensile strength of an eardrum.
I didn’t know this man at the time and doubted very much that I ever would, but that didn’t keep me from wanting to. I wish we weren’t strangers. But that’s not the point. Failure to introduce one’s self is a matter of politeness and nothing more. I wish it still meant something. Like when one man would shake another’s right hand to demonstrate he wasn’t drawing a sword.
I didn’t think he’d care, with that frown etched starkly into his face, I guess I’ll introduce myself to you. My name is Gene. I am 24 years old. I live in Nebraska. I work in this oversized corporate building in the center of an industrial park and I escape extremely boring meetings from time to time in this extremely boring bathroom. I’m nobody. But you already knew that, didn’t you? The corporation is everything, though I’m not sure it means anything. One too many advertising campaigns get you believing the shit yourself.
I had emerged from the only stall in the room, buckling my belt, buttoning my coat, and wondering “Just what the hell is that noise he’s listening to?” Considering the man’s plight the thought was insensitive, I know, but it was damn loud. My tastes ran more towards the classics. Hendrix is still a god, even in 2006. Zeppelin, too. And yes, I’ve forgotten what it means to be “young.”
“What’s that you’re listening to?”
He seemed confused for a moment, then took a step back, turned and looked at me with a kind of disapproval. His sneakers squeaked as he did it and I couldn’t help but chortle at the pink drops of blood splattered on his white non-descript high-tops. I guess he had better things to do than stand there and chat with me. Why shoot the shit when you could bleed out your nose like a stuck pig? I’m unbelievable.
I looked self conscious and asked “Um, yeah, sorry. Do you need any help?”
Awkwardly (which in itself is an awkward word), I moved toward the paper towel dispenser on the wall and before I even washed my hands, started tearing pieces out of it. He already had a fine collection of reddened rags piled on the sink counter in front of him. Again, his eyes lanced me with disdain. This time it was mixed with amusement.
He said, “You didn’t even wash your hands.”
I glanced down at what I thought were mostly clean towels and thought better of my efforts. No, I wouldn’t want someone like me handing out “clean” paper towels either. He moved aside for a moment so I could wash my hands. After throwing the “clean” towels out I moved beside him and gave my hands a once or twice over. When I was done drying the pink crevices between my fingers, I turned to him once again. He was chuckling mildly to himself, and looking yet again at me. I realized then how much older than me he was. We looked in opposite directions, letting the strangeness of the situation hang in the air.
I let out a nervous laugh and asked him, “How’s that?”
“Heh, yeah, much better. Don’t worry about it, I get these all the time. Yeah, I could use some help. Could you do me a huge favor?” He was blonde. He had blue eyes. He was at least six inches taller than me and in all honesty I discovered I was attracted. Strange.
I nodded and turned toward the dispenser again, apparently determined on some unconsciously idiotic level to act the savior no matter what considering my bumbling attempt beforehand. Lot of good that did. I wondered why I was feeling the way I was. Am I really that bored? I kept asking myself. I know I can’t get any play from the girls, but I mean… come on, Gene.
“No, sorry, I don’t need any more towels. But listen buddy, what I do need, is someone to run this pizza upstairs real quick.” He bent his knees slowly so as not to tilt his sieve of a nose and reached below him to grab a delivery bag I hadn’t noticed before now. Ah, pizza delivery. I hadn’t even noticed the helmet in the corner of the counter. Illusions of grandeur and heroics, you know how it goes, overlooking all kinds of important details. I wondered how and why an older, charming man like this would be reduced to such a lowly position in the world.
I checked my watch, almost noon. If I hurried I could be a hero, win some good karma, AND make it back in time for the meeting. Did I mention I’m a Hindu? Not Indian, no, full-on middle-America but without the taste for Christ and all that. As far as I was concerned the road to salvation was lined with towering crosses, all waiting to fall upon the next misbegotten traveler.
For a moment I see out the corner of my eye a sneer on his face and I wondered just what the hell that’s about. When he notices I noticed it quickly changes to a crooked smile. I kept the question to myself. I looked at the pizza box he was holding out in his free hand. Five floors above and the elevator’s out. I figure what the hell?
The rest seems ridiculous. I would even call it ludicrous. I smiled at him, asked his name. He said it was Luke and I knew he was lying, but the pizza was already in my hands. It didn’t feel very warm, he must have been very late. I left the bathroom, hoping he would be there when I got back so I could finally act the savior and win some well-deserved praise. Though I suppose it wasn’t in the best interests of karma to crave such a thing. So I’m superficial. I think we’ve already made that quite apparent, as by this point I’d probably do anything for that man. I still don’t understand why. He had a confident magnetism about him.
The stairs were trying. I hadn’t thought about exercise in months and actually done any in longer. By the time I got to the top I wondered seriously about eating the pizza myself and being on my way, never even returning to the bathroom. The secretary at the desk was cute but a little too chipper. Bubbly and high pitched, I thought she could use a cigarette or a beer. She told me to leave the box on the table in the lobby, though she wasn’t sure who had ordered a pizza. Maybe one of the big shots, always doing things behind people’s backs. I obliged.
I turned from the tabletop and began walking back down the stairs. When the bomb in the pizza box (they can make them to just about any size nowadays, can’t they?) exploded first shattering the glass, I went deaf and I sobbed. I threw myself to the ground and I screamed for help. When I saw no one was coming, I wished I was back there, in the fire and the rubble. The girl and her ridiculously unnecessary happiness were gone. She definitely hadn’t needed shrapnel. Or a piece of her lying next to me on the floor. What happened hit me like the concussion of energy not moments ago. I realized I had been played and I found myself wishing I was dead.
They sat me down in one of many interrogation rooms. I don’t know what to do besides fidget like a moron. A seemingly mild-mannered man enters the automatic-locking door behind me. He carries a semi-automatic weapon on his hip and a condescending smirk on his face. I think I plead for my life. It sounds more like gibberish. He grunts as he squeezes in behind the desk. The room is very small and he is rather large. No formalities, no introduction. He demands my story then. He says my life depends on it. I tell him my story.
When I’m finished he nods, gathers up the file folder he’d carried in with him. He hasn’t said a word the whole time and closes the door gently behind him.
My cell is very ugly, very safe, and very small.

See Ya Space Cowboy...

2006-03-13T13:22:00.000-05:00

A stupid quiz I took today. I was happy with the result.

You scored as Bebop (Cowboy Bebop). Hope you don't mind being anime.
Your style just fits perfect with the crew of the Bebop.
Life is tough and your crew knows it, but you will find a way to survive.
You always do. Now if only Faye would quit gambling all your money away.

Bebop (Cowboy Bebop)

100%

Serenity (Firefly)

94%

Deep Space Nine (Star Trek)

81%

Galactica (Battlestar: Galactica)

81%

Millennium Falcon (Star Wars)

69%

SG-1 (Stargate)

63%

Babylon 5 (Babylon 5)

63%

Andromeda Ascendant (Andromeda)

50%

Nebuchadnezzar (The Matrix)

50%

Moya (Farscape)

50%

FBI's X-Files Division (The X-Files)

44%

Enterprise D (Star Trek)

25%

Your Ultimate Sci-Fi Profile II: which sci-fi crew would you best fit in? (pics)
created with QuizFarm.com

Once This Room Held Warmth

2006-02-17T23:38:00.000-05:00

A piece I wrote for my current Fiction Workshop. It's inspired by the play between a poem I wrote, the murder one... and one of my friends. I decided to twist up the whole thing in order to make it a little crazy. It has some elements from some old stuff, but it's mostly all new. Enjoy.

“When you stare off to one side like that it’s frustrating. Help me. I don’t understand,” I grab a tiny wooden toothpick from the pile to my left and snap it between my thumb and middle finger, using the pointer as a guillotine. Its remains are deposited to my right, with the rest of its fallen comrades. She watches the ceremony from across the table with a faint grin of what could be amusement.
“You won’t. Not for a while. The holes devour. They congeal. Transform.” Snap. Another toothpick loses its purpose.
“What are you talking about? What holes? Reality isn’t worn like a pair of shoes and there are no windows in your mind. Here I am, right in front of you. What is it you think you’re missing? I don’t understand.”
“You will. The holes become doors, swinging open. Swinging closed. You’ll see.” The ritual’s put on pause as I ponder this prophecy.
“I thought I... Never mind. Stop it. Tell me about your dream. Please. I need something.”
“There is no more.” Snap.
She scratches the table for a moment with her fingernails; the black paint is thin and peeling at the edges. Feet shift and scrape from underneath as she rises and looks me in the eye. Her hand, ethereal like a strong breeze, brushes across the table spilling the piles of broken and unbroken toothpicks, mashing them together. Purpose and purposelessness collide. The waitress is nowhere to be seen. She seems to have forgotten her post as guardian of our safe haven. Time is almost up and I can tell by the vacant expression reflected in the window that she has already decided to abandon me.
A fingertip or two lift and graze my shoulder as she walks past me toward the glass door and the lightening sky beyond it. I don’t look after her but I hear it when she bumps into a stool in front of the counter and the diner’s chimes jingle as she lets the door say goodbye. I say nothing. A moment later she is visible on the other side of my window, walking into the highway away from me, away from safety.
I remember how we met. The scrawny girl with her hair dyed blue and red, split down the middle, walked through my dorm’s open door like she belonged there, campaigning for first year government treasurer. I didn’t know why she would bother with such a lowly, insignificant sort of position, but hey, everyone’s entitled to do whatever the fuck they please. Get in at the bottom and it will open doors and all that crap. Regardless, I’m not the type to give my name without any real reason so I make her earn it.
“Are you a democrat or republican?”
“I consider myself socially liberal but politically conservative.”
“All right...that’s bullshit. Let’s try again... Do you like Bush?”
“Yeah, I have to - I met them once at this No doubt concert -“
“No. Not the Gavin Rossdale Bush. The President?!”
“Oh, yeah...I like him too!”
“Right...well...give me the fucking petition.” I signed my name, Duncan, and knew I was jealous of her motivation. I pass the clipboard, now a little heavier with the weight of my dumb name, she offered her hand in exchange and a name of her own. That was back when names actually meant something and I smile at the thought.
“My name’s Emma. What are you doing later?” It was a trap.
She reached the limit of the diner’s protective circle of light, where she cast no more shadow into the blackness beyond. Where she was headed no light would follow, the eminent guide abandoning the vagrant soul for the comfortable warmth of safety. The eighteen-wheeler collided with her frail human form and while she flies, she disappears. No body to account for, the driver emerges and drops from his cab, baffled. All that remains are tiny embers cascading around the truck’s mass, each piece flickering and sparkling in the intense headlights. I think for a moment they look like burning butterflies.
Always the same, always leaving me to fend for myself. Again.
The waitress surfaces, unconsciously summoned from the unknown depths of the back rooms with a look of dreadful understanding, almost as if she is thinking “Not me. Oh God, not me...” Then a man with a black cloak, the hood down, walked into the diner as the bells tinkled behind him. This time I turn around in the booth. He walks toward the counter and wraps his arm around the waitress’ shoulder, quietly whispering into her ear like they’ve conspired against me for centuries. The reaction is minimal: a vacant stare and her swift return to the bowels of the rundown diner. I look away, through my reflection, and into the night. Then back at the cloaked figure. There is a mildly skewed familiarity to the whole situation. The stale mug of coffee, liquid now plastered to its sides, tells me that I’ve been here for longer than I would like to admit.
I gather my jacket and her purse, leaving money enough to pay for the coffee and nothing more. I survey the mess of toothpick remains littering the floor. The jacket wraps around me as the man steps in my direction. Darkness emanates from the air around him, altering the fabric of what I thought was a static reality. She was right after all, and of course it’s already too late. It always is. I know what it would look like from the highway: A man, me, standing alone, wide-eyed but calm. But that’s not how it’s happening. I’m not alone. And I’m certainly not calm. All at once I vanish in the darkness and feel as though I’ve stepped into air.

* * *

A man lays on the ground, with his back to the wall, his chin on his chest. Slumped over but restless, obviously alive, his legs spread before him in the kind of crooked position reserved for dead people who have been thrown from cars or fallen from buildings. Light glares through glass like the unhappy glance of God but only for a second, passing over the empty space and quickly forgetting it. Shadows grip his face and the contours of his body, letting the artificial light do its deceptive work, only to depart into darkness again.
He opens his eyes.
Did you do this? The words are scrawled on the wall in what could be red paint. It is still wet and drips down the wall, pooling and congealing where the ragged wallpaper meets the worn carpet floor. Every surface is a bruise, gray, black and blue, like an inmate in his final hours tried desperately to punch his way through reality.
Did you do this?
Below the words a photograph is taped unevenly to the wall and in the anti-light of the room he can faintly make out figures. Red fingerprints surround the edges of the photo and a full handprint is clearly visible on the wall to the right of it. When his eyes finally focus and the light makes another pass at the room, he registers its contents. There’s blood on his hands, maybe his face. He doesn’t know for sure.
When his eyes unwillingly return to the photograph he sees what the image holds. It’s sloppy, unfocused, but clearly depicting on the left a pale-skinned woman with exposed breasts and what could be her excessively exposed blood. On the right, occupying the foreground, a figure stands with its back to the photographer, the glint of metal in its left hand. The sliver looks long and slender like a knife but it is unclear; there is too much movement. The figure is nothing more than a silhouette, a shadow, backlit and unspecific. On the floor beside the woman’s feet is a brightly shining silver chain, the clasp broken, with a clearly defined cross pendant attached.
“Are you ok, babe? Your face… you’re sweating.” She reached over and brushed his hair gently from his forehead. He turned from his back to his side, facing away from her and pulled his pillow closer.
“What? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. What are you doing up?”
“I’m sorry.” She cast her gaze aside then looked past him at the half-drunk glass of water on his nightstand, a bottle and its contents tipped on the side. The pills reminded her of tiny deceptive beetles, so small in stature but filled with such poison.
“Stop it. There’s nothing more to it. You have to go to sleep.”
“Duncan…”
She didn’t believe him so she mouthed the words again: “I’m sorry, Duncan.” There was much more to it that would never be resolved. She knew his heart and it was broken. Covers twisted and her own pillow was rearranged, but there was no comfort waiting her when she slept. Only hate.
That night she dreamed of her transgression: a barely lit bedroom with a man who wasn’t Duncan. Twenty-three and clearly drunk, she took his shirt and dropped it to the floor. As the couple slithered among the sheets, snakes poured from his eyes and she screamed.
Light shining through the window to the right of the shadow-clad figure lights up the lower half of the woman’s body but still illuminating her other features. Her head seemed at first to be cut off by the frame, but the excess of blood around her neck and a glimpse of exposed flesh tells differently. He stares at the photo in disbelief and questions slide through his head as if over a floor of ice, each freezing him as they shatter his consciousness, one right after the other.
What is going on? How did this happen? Where am I? Who are those people? And then, after a moment, Who am I...?
He blinks for a long time, holding his eyes shut for a few seconds. When they open again something has changed about the photo. The woman’s body has shifted, there is less of her torso contained within the simple edges and her arms and legs are now in different positions. As he focuses on her he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. Then... His heart. Her heart? Beating? No, her feet against the ground, kicking.
She crawls slowly out of the frame, head missing in action, away from the figure with the knife and out of the photograph all-together. She has disappeared from the photo as if a world were contained within the flattened, captured reality of the image. He stares at the place on the ground where she had been, the necklace and smeared blood the only remaining evidence she had ever been there. The necklace begins to disappear, dissolving into the carpet. The blood on the ground moves slowly toward the necklace, then even more quickly.
As the silver cross is consumed in the black of blood, the lonely man gasps out in terror and a horrible sense of forgotten understanding. The light returns, hits his face, and wrongfully blesses him with the overcast, darkened features of death. He tries to push himself away from the photo but is pinned by the wall. He blinks again and the words above the photo are gone, leaving only the photo on the wall. He blinks a third time and the photo is gone, replaced with the same bloody question Did you do this? This time below it, where the photo had been, is written I did.
Chills ravage his body. A fourth blink and the wall is blank, the words gone but in his hand is a trinket, like a demented souvenir, a silver chain wrapped around a tarnished cross. Alone in the darkness of what seems to pass for a hotel room, the light ignores his plight and the shadows huddle around him in a worthless and jaded attempt at warmth. Questions of accusation twist from within and up through his throat, cutting him apart with violent intensity. He throws the cross against the wall where the photo had been, letting it clatter to the ground in a muffled protest, left to sit in silence.
What the hell was that? He asked himself again and again but answers would not come. Did I do that? How? He wasn’t sure. When he finally stood he propped himself against the walls, pushing hard on crumbling wallpaper. Dry and cool, the wall feels reassuring against his sweaty palms. He nervously peers through the window on the right hand wall to find himself looking out over a bay from the third or fourth floor of the building.
The sky, a heavy silver gray, is cloudless but seems foreboding; as if clouds and rain were on there way, perhaps already there, waiting to spring themselves on the unsuspecting. A dim light shines in the distance. Its beam illuminates the room for yet another second, at the exact moment his eyes have finally gotten used to the dark. Pupils dilate and he feels his teeth chatter. A short lighthouse stands on a long stone jetty, perhaps a mile or two down the shore and a few hundred meters into the turbulent water. Fog makes the coast beyond the lighthouse impossible to see.
“Oh my gosh, it’s beautiful.” She looks up at him but his gaze is transfixed on the tiny cross pendant encased within its black plush box. He seems startled as if from a dream and looks at her momentarily, smiling faintly. His hands are tense but eased as they glide along her shoulders, carefully adorned in a splendid silk blouse for the occasion: Their three-year anniversary as a couple.
“Of course it is. I’m not as horrible a boyfriend as you think. I’m glad you like it. Let me put it on you.” They stand at the end of the pier, looking out towards the lighthouse. “It’s beautiful.” The clasp snaps shut around her neck.
“I know, thank you.” She hasn’t realized he isn’t talking about the necklace. A looming fog was coming in, the pressure in the air transforming the bay into an invisible cauldron of metrological turbulence. The lighthouse continues to turn, casting its warning beacon for boats and ships no longer in danger of running ashore. He thinks it is left there to heighten the mood of the place. He turns and looks back at the building. The bed and breakfast are well kept but loom monstrously. It speaks to him from inside his dreams and he wonders if taking his Emma to this place was as good an idea as he had hoped. He decides at that moment that he must kill her. It was inevitable, of course.
Below the window in which he’s framed, there is an unkempt courtyard. A moldy fountain occupies a small piece of garden among the overgrown grass and forgotten paths. Abandoned flowerbeds spawn rotting weeds and vines. Hedges stand like sentinels on either end of the yard, flanking what had once been the central walk to the front entrance of the hotel. At the end of the path a rusted wrought iron gate eleven feet tall keeps watch over the entire property. A small boat, beached on the shore, is partially hidden behind a burial mound of sand and dust kicked up by the wind.
He gazes out the window a moment longer before pulling himself away from the hollow visage staring through the reflection. Who am I? Why can’t I remember anything?
Muddy images and meaningless memories blur and then a sideways glance from an old man and a quiet exchange of words below the white noise of a half empty late night diner counter.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing, as far as I can tell. Not you. Maybe myself. I don’t know.”
“Take your fucking smiles somewhere else. They’re not helping anyone; especially not me!”
No response to this outcry. The man’s silence leaves him with even more questions: Who was the man I was talking to? He tested his own voice to see if he could recall, glancing nervously from one corner of the room to another and then uttering as casually as he could,
“Hello. Is this a dream?”
Seconds pass, and he listens for an echo, satisfied with the initial lack of feedback. He is not expecting a response, but the room gives one as what sounds like a taunt.
“HELLO! WAKE UP!”
His own voice, distorted and amplified, screams through his ears and fills his mind. Tainted with what sounded like maniacal intent, the cacophony of discord was enough to rattle the teeth in his jaw and take a firm cold grip on the base of his spine. It seemed as though the wallpaper of the room was tearing itself from the wall in order to escape the wrath of the violently mutated echo. Slowly, holes in what had once been shadows were rendered as the force of the scream pervaded the room. His mouth slammed shut and his eyes slammed open, he tried to slow his breathing, hoping to bring some tranquility to what was already an increasingly disturbing situation. The familiar diner surrounds him once again, the pile of toothpicks still arranged in discord not two feet from where he stands.

* * *

The waitress, crusty with age and grease, peers around the open doorway leading to the kitchen. Telephone in hand, she screams at me to stay where I am. She’s already on the phone with the police and I hear one word clearly: “Murder.” Emma was right, of course. Again. But thinking on the word and all that has happened, I still think I am right, somehow justified. For that I was going to Hell. I smile and know I deserve it.
I was slightly pleased to find the dark-cloaked man still standing at the counter, a few feet before me. Underneath his hood I knew his age was indeterminate, looking like an old man but only because he wanted to. He cackles, a pronouncement of victory in my torture. Oh yes, his victory is indeed profound.
To the waitress and casual observers passing on the highway, it seems as though I walk alone. But I know better. His arm bends languidly and the hand, skin stretched tight over frail bone beneath, beckons me forward. I glance once again at the pile of toothpicks, still so many left to break, and walk two or three paces behind him. The chimes say goodbye and the waitress screams again, something unintelligible this time.
He waits by the roadside with me for thirty seconds before I realize I now walk the path Emma had taken what seemed just moments earlier. I turn south, the direction I had come from to get to the diner. Twenty-seven miles down the road, smoke billows into the air. The hotel, arid and lifeless burned easily enough. Orange lights the sky as the sun rises in front of me. I scan the asphalt for any remnants of the Emma I once loved, the Emma who had seemed so real but was in on the elaborate scheme; a shoe, her ring, one of those quirky bracelets she always wore. Then I knew she wanted me to suffer.
Anyone could have seen the eighteen-wheeler coming from over three miles away; the road was straight and narrow, its travelers impossible to miss. This fact doesn’t stop me from stepping in front of it. No time to stop, the silver grille collides with my face, my chest, and breaks my knees beneath its mass. Its headlights are still on, blinding me momentarily and as I fly backward, the behemoth’s brakes squealing, I utter a knife-edged scream. I do not have the privilege of bursting into beautiful burning butterflies, so I lay on the pavement bloody and broken. I am sorry, Emma.

Judgement Day Came and Went (v.2)

2006-01-18T16:24:00.000-05:00

The second, hopefully better, version of my story from a little while back. Enjoy.

‘Grab the lamp and hurry.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Behind you. Hurry! There’s no time.’
‘They’re here already? Impossible. Are the rest awake?’
‘Shut your mouth and get outside.’
She drew a sharp breath inward as she uttered a choked up, mumbled retort about his severity and realized it was worthless. Not without a momentary attempt to console, they gripped each other’s shoulder in tightly wrenched fists as hurried kisses were exchanged between lovers and then exchanged again. The lamp was not yet lit, but a sliver of the rising sun seeped through the tent’s zippered entrance, illuminating the indomitable terror lurking behind their eyes. In the dim light she urgently scrambled to fish a calendar and pen from beneath a knapsack, crossing off the last day in March.
March, she thought, where did you go? Maybe if we can last the year... Can we last?
She slowly flipped the page back to April, casting her gaze aside as tears rushed forth. He wrapped his arms around her, sure to avoid the torn, burned area just below the shoulder blade.
The pair heaped insulated jackets, pants, and boots onto their trembling forms, as they emerged to stand among the others, all little more than wavering silhouettes. Wind whipped snow, grit, and a scent of decomposed flesh that caught their scarves and tore at their faith. Numbers had dwindled over the last three months. The dreaded yellow harbinger of day crept slowly from behind the horizon as those remaining regrouped and waited. Having withstood three months of horror, there was nothing to do but prepare; eat, fasten boots, reload weapons, and pray, all in the deceptively beautiful morning light. They called these ‘the magic hours’; the little time they had left reduced all facets of life to a question of whether or not courage would be summoned to face the war that day. Sunrises became a thing of beauty, appreciated with a sense of danger. Like a beautiful woman, blonde locks and pristine eyes holding a knife or gun between her sculpted fingers. Sometimes the anxiety was too much and this was the time most chose to escape, the cliff’s edges providing a convenient means of suicide. But still they fought, again and again.
God is taking back what’s His. The Jews had it right after all. Our God is a vengeful one, full of wrath and anger. Now we know His will. And His will is for us to die, she shuddered and sipped her coffee. The calm that surrounded the encampment of some three thousand people became eerie in the still dark morning. Their side of the mountain would not behold the full breadth of the day until noontime and then it would be over but already many were roused from sleep to take part in the preparation ceremony. Some read the newspapers that chronicled the first weeks of the onslaught before printers and reporters were too terrified to man their information-laundering stations. In a way it was like gauging the opponent, studying video tape of the opposing team before the all-out championship game battle. Others found them to be a kind of gospel, written proof that judgement had been passed. Many among them considered the war a final act of redemption. Though they were taking many of My soldiers, humankind defied the divine will with the knowledge they would lose.
The inescapable blood-soaked routine dominated. It snowed white every few days but the red would not be easily forgotten. From the beginning, moralizing was pointless but hope was not. Regardless of the reasons, everyone desperately clung to that which they thought mattered most. There were no more children left to brighten the faces of parents, or time to replace them with babies. Dogs replaced the need for family. Photos, journals, books, anything that documented what seemed significant was carried, as meaningful as dragging the innumerable corpses of fallen comrades like proof they had at one time really existed.
Corpses were good for cover and good for staying hidden. A well-built pile of dead friends meant the difference between lasting the day and lasting a minute. Stack them high and thick enough and they could provide protection to mount a counterattack, reload a weapon, or a moment to meditate on death. Such moments were precious. Insanity claws at the edge of each psyche but still hope withstands the tumult. Hope for survival. Hope for redemption. Stories were told and memories made as glances between the lightening sky and the repellant ground became racked with panic.
We don’t belong here anymore. It’s not ours. It’s not ours. It never was. Even still...
They standd together now, on the mountainside, the last remnants of humanity. No more children or time to make them, they had all been lost or abandoned to death. No one could blame them since everyone was guilty. So few, these were survivors. Some were unwilling to accept the finality of it all and seemed to search frantically to define themselves with feats of bravery and honor.
Some acquainted for decades, others for days. In their final days and hours they bonded. No more boundaries between them, no more disputes. Inequity was an illusion of the past, now defunct and broken by the grand scale of the attempt to salvage humanity in the midst of catastrophe. They fought in vain, grabbing at what was most likely the last moments of what were to the universe infinitesimally insignificant lives. But not to Me. It had become routine. No longer for any purpose or design, instinct mixed with hope dominated will. In these last moments they became what they were meant to be. High-minded ideals were replaced by survival instinct. Hopeful creatures until the end, there was nothing to withstand beyond the simple setting of the sun. Each day to live was another for which they were thankful.
Hope, one of those things we always took for granted. Why hope now? I don’t know why, but I do. It’s all we have. Today will be the day we protect this delicate, fragile thing. And then tomorrow will be another. I hope I am there to see it.
Where there was once choice they saw only desperation. The sun continued to track its carefully plotted course across the sky and finally reached its peak. The angels were coming and not without evoking banshee wails and fervent curses from those gathered on the mountain. Once honored guardians were now a scourge that fought in the high noon sun and only then, as it was unacceptable to do God’s work in the pitch of night like bandits. Oh yes, they were high and they were mighty indeed. For millennia they watched, indulged, waited, and protected.
The caretakers of humanity, the angels truly cared for them little if it was so willed by their Creator. Now they were called on for a dreadfully changed purpose. It had taken them three months for near-total annihilation. In their corporeal forms would not afford them the luxuries ethereal bodies would bestow and therefore the angels could be killed. But still they are too many for humanity in their mortality to repel. Sheer numbers were overwhelming. The angels, once symbols of hope for those humans became couriers, delivering a message of betrayal in the form of plague and disaster. Silhouettes again emerged to greet the day, but this time descending from the bleak white brightness above.
At once a trumpet sounds on each side of the conflict and the mass gathered on the mountain throw their near-delirious eyes upward. It is time to survive. To scream and fight and will another day to be marked on the calendar. The eyes on both sides were cold and wretched while bodies wreathed in flame dove toward the ground, prepared to wreak unholy havoc upon the humans waiting below. Enormous wings, glimmering armor and medieval weaponry adorned their tall, perfect forms. Forms that belied a horrible power, created for efficience and precision. Their beauty is undeniable. In fact the most disturbing thing of all was how such attractive creatures could be capable of such horrors. Much like the woman with the weapon.
Bullets ripped the clouds into willowy wisps, dispersing as angels flew or fell through them. Grenades, rockets, whatever firepower could be mustered were launched into the air to attack their assailants. Missiles ricocheted and whined as they were deflected by the armor of the winged assailants. Cries for forgiveness and the mercy of God saturate the air. No quarter is given. Bodies are quickly piled on top of one another like barricades as swords and shrapnel rain on the battlefield like acid, eroding the earth and the will of the survivors. The angels continue to descend from the sun seemingly without end and eclipse it with their own brilliance.
They were right to flee to the mountains. With no choice left but to run and fight with their backs against the wall, it was perhaps best to fight the formidable guardians of my will on as close to equal a playing field they could manage. I did not create imbecile creatures. The battlefield was lit with an aura of holy purpose as blood sprayed and splattered. Bodies, now deformed from damage or a frenzied hatred, littered the mountainside. A light snow began to fall and again the beauty of such a horrific event was undeniable.
I can’t believe this is happening. Haven’t we proven ourselves? God damn it!
She again exchanged an intensely terrified stare with her man and an understanding seemed to pass between them they would die together that day.
We won’t last the year. The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long. What? It doesn’t matter now. Like Adam and Eve we’ll all be banished without sympathy.
Then, with a tone of defeated hatred and finality: I hate You.
It was inevitable, of course. I watched as a sword was let to fly and hit its mark between her breasts. Extinguished, her death bore deep into the heart of the matter: their indomitable will to survive. This will was a gift and now it was a curse. They fought valiantly against impossibility despite the overwhelming force opposing them. This had been my hope. This was how it all started. A man and woman. Now they were not only banished but dead, by my hand.
Her lover, shocked, scrambled to her side.
‘I love you.’
I agonize with him as another sword finds his back just below the heart and an angel falls bloody and broken beside them. The horror was inevitable. Inevitable. They are wrong. Though I am vengeful I am not without my sympathy. I know they tried. It just... was not enough. They had their chance. I wanted to give them another but the balance of things could tolerate them no longer. I wished it was all just a dream, or one of their silly cliched films. But then I remembered that all wishes and dreams come back to me one way or another. There was no way to change their fate. This thing I set in motion, so many years ago, ages even for me, was doomed from the start and I knew it. Despite this knowledge I gave them hope and will. I gave myself a kind of hope, only to have it abandoned and destroyed. From a more objective standpoint, it is surprising how important the death thralls, hate, and screams of mere dust specks can reverberate and haunt for ages.
Still a part of Me lingered on their plight and wanted to save them that day. It was beautiful, their last stand. I loved her. I loved them all but none survived that day. Across my world, they fought and gave themselves up to something beyond themselves. Beyond the petty conflict that faced them. I wondered for a moment whether it was out of brotherhood or survival that they fought the inevitable. I want to believe it was the former. This was the end and they were finally one. They blazed in their intended glory. An apocalypse provoked them to understanding and unity. Is that all it took?
It saddens me now, to think on them. It snowed that night and every day until April. A terribly ferocious storm, one that enveloped the battleground and covered the dead remnants of a palpable hope remained scarred in the earth beneath their corpses no matter how deep the snow fell.

Battle Against God...

2005-10-25T01:04:00.000-04:00

A work in progress. Inspired by the book I'm reading right now called The World that Jones Made by Philip K. Dick. Awesome writer. Anyway, one of the main characters (who also happens to be able to see into the future) is talking about how pathetic it is that the human race does nothing but try to rebuild and rebuild its civilizations after catastrophes despite the vast opportunities awaiting them in space and on other planets. A little trippy, yeah, but it got me thinking about all of the terrible natural disasters and how despite these warning signs that our planet or God or whatever doesn't appreciate our civilization too much (seeing as how it's being destroyed, little by little) we try to rebuild again and again. Now if you're into nihilism then I guess you don't really think it matters much but this line of thought lead me to an image of mankind's final stand against God's reclaimation of the paradise he lost in anger to the creatures he'd created. The following poem ensued, documenting those final moments and our failed attempt to inherit the right to call this planet our own. An image of humanity's final act - the only we've ever engaged in together without division or discrimination or conflict - staring upward at the sky, waiting for our judgement. It just now occurs to me that the poem's about the end of the world.

Battle Against God to Keep Our World

The snow and dust blew around our ankles
Etching our shadows into the
Slowly disintegrating cliff face
Like a memorial to millenia squandered.

All willing to fight had gathered now,
Thousands on that cloud-piercing mountain
Glaring upward, eyes squinting
Against the high noon sun.

A million winged silhouettes descended upon us
Swords drawn with murderous intent
Dropping from the sky like bombs
Seconds away from exacting righteous revenge.

Armed with little more than faith
In what we hoped was God’s good grace
The impossible war seemed laughably comical
Though terror willed us to fight in vain.

Not a single man, woman, or child was spared.

Savor the Horror

2005-10-05T23:41:00.000-04:00

I wrote this while listening to M83's "Car Chase Terror." Conjuring thoughts of horror and violence, I then decided to write what I would probably consider my most horrid poem. I bet creative writing workshop would have a field day with this one. Damn, why couldn't I have submitted it for critique? Anyway, I love it. I spent a long time on it, but it's one of the few I've written in a single sitting and been happy enough with to post immediately. In case you don't get it (because apparently my poems are hard to grasp conceptually) this poem is about the murder of someone and the beauty of the present and what might have been. Hope it makes you feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. ENJOY!

A Murder

A wretched twist of the spoon, a sprinkle of sugar
Conspire to hide a bright reflection for a quick forgotten moment.
A flick of the wrist and a fire erupts tamed and innocent and warm
Extinguished after its destructive purpose is served.
A thrust of rage through a spiteful form bleeds black from both involved
Amputating a chance at redemption and leaving all to rot.

A smoking cup of accusatory coffee
With a charred cigarette butt hanging over its edge.
A lighter polished to a cloudy mirror’s surface
With distortion transforms a grimace to a grin.
A shining knife in tense and brutal hands
With droplets splashing red and ringing tired feet.

A blonde hidden beneath a countenance the color of ash
Chokes out the sound of a chuckle at the finality of the horror.
A life slowly oozing onto a polished dining room floor,
Leaves a muddied figure no chalk line could possibly define.
A disgusting, banal ticking of the grandfather clock
Tells of time yet to soak in the beauty of what might have been.

The Last Gunslinger

2005-09-28T17:33:00.000-04:00

So this post seems to be tremendously overdue. I know some people (well, mostly just Newsome) have been hounding me to get my ass back in gear as far as this blog of mine is concerned and I finally have an original piece of writing to put up here. Right now I'm taking a creative writing class so hopefully that will spark a little more creativity in the writing department. I swear though, I've been busy with other stuff - mainly drawing. Somehow I've gotten back into it in a very real way. If you'd like to check that out you can click on this link: http://alreadyreloading.deviantart.com. Good stuff.

There are moments when I feel as though I could be on the brink of a greater understanding of this life, but as hard as I may try, I can't seem to find the trigger necessary to ultimately reach a coveted level of enlightenment. I realize I sound off kilter with this kind of outrageous and unwarranted self-examination, but the questions remains, evading my comprehension for God only knows how long. And as I've walked along my path through time and it becomes more and more complicated, the choices have become scattered infinitely, as far as the horizon, and my desire to understand grows with each choice left unexplored. Thus, I grow wary. While I've been slowly making my way through the last leg of the Dark Tower journey, I realize that I've unconsciously inherited the ka-tet's longing for knowledge as to the point of it all; the point of my own life and the lives of those around me, not to mention the true substance of existence. I'm not trying to be vague or evasive. I simply don't understand God or fate or destiny or free will. What does it mean? Although this is a subject examined time and time again, I still feel drawn to the question. I know I'm not alone. Stephen King's character of Roland, for example, is an inherent contradiction. Roland is repeatedly written and described as one without much of an imagination, believing blindly that "there will be water if Ka (fate/God) wills it." In spite of this presumption, however, Roland of Gilead himself longs for understanding. His true desire and seemingly self-made purpose is to climb the Tower and discover for himself if there is a God. If he is worthy. If, in all honesty, human existence is worth saving. Roland and his beloved group of wanderers pursue their quest for the Tower regardless of the evil that has repeatedly befallen their path. Their belief in what amount to nothing more than what pessimists would call invented concepts of love and honor, have driven them without pause. I believe that it is King's purpose in writing the books that a Dark Tower in fact exists in all of our lives. The choice falls to our own will and conviction whether or not a true understanding of what holds this life together is worth an unwavering pursuit. The themes of the Dark Tower pervade and evaluate all of modern society. When you look at American politics, for example, the summation of all debate and contradiction is the question "What does it mean for America to stay the course? To win a war that could be better left forgotten?"

Anyway, enough with the trivialities. As for the piece posted below, when I say this post has been overdue, it's because this poem has been fermenting for almost a year. It's an apostrophe (or trying to be) to the last gunslinger of Stephen King's world, Roland Deschain. I don't feel like wasting time explaining Roland and his quest for the Dark Tower, but suffice it to say that The Dark Tower series of books (there are 7 in all) are not your typical King and cannot be written off as some hack attempt at horror. Instead they give life to a world not too dissimilar from our own but enhanced with the luster and vibrancy of magic and fantasy. The gunslingers of this world, called "Midworld" are the knights of their realm. Roland is the last of his kind, the rest having been killed off in what was to be the war to end all wars. More to the point, Roland is one of the most amazing characters I've ever had the pleasure of experiencing through literature. At once a pop culture almagamation and a lonely outcast, Roland defies stereotypes of what a hero or antihero for that matter should be and truly creates his own legend. I speak of him as a real person because that is exactly what he is to me. Roland could make you cry, though you think he'd never be capable of it himself. Enough of my rambling. If you haven't had the pleasure of experiencing the life of Roland Deschain, I recommend you discard your notions concerning King and his work and learn what it means to truly know a person and understand their pain. Even if you don't give a damn about what I've said or who I'm saying it about, I hope you enjoy the piece. Long days and pleasant nights.

The Last Gunslinger

A machine built and loved by fate
With quick and practiced fingers
Cold but for a brand of pain
Born of ancient triggers

Blue steel reflects his tired eyes
Set beneath a tortured brow
His smile reflects white winter skies
And warns those near to bow

A journey carved through paths of dust
Spent shells pave the ghost trail home
Time is broken, a watch consumed by rust
Magic fuels your legend wherever you will roam

No friends to aid but hands
Imbued with terribly fiendish skill
No need to question fate
And its undeniable yet cruel will

The crimson devil you seek
So desperately to kill
Waits anxious as a prisoner of the
Blood-soaked, rose-thorned hill

So load the barrels once more
Walk tall with royal pride
Bleed if you must and falter
But never think of hesitation

Dispense death in exchange for life
And their souls will hear your cry
Breach the Tower and for all those lost
Keep all the worlds alive.

A machine built and loved by fate
With quick and practiced fingers
Cold but for a brand of pain
Born of ancient triggers

Chimera Obscurant

2005-04-14T17:34:00.000-04:00

It's been a long time. This site has become more of a scrapbook than a blog. Sad, in a way... better, in many others. The lyrics posted below completely blew my mind. They're from the Velvet Teen off their "Elsyium" album. It's the last section in a 13 minute song titled "Chimera Obscurant." Go out, buy the cd, and enjoy the cd (which is an entity unto itself) in its entirety.

so come on, child, you’ve slept enough
and i know you’re tired but i’m waking you up
there is much to be done, and we’re right on the cusp
of this shit getting real, i’m mean really, really fucked
every sheep for the shearing waiting around non-plussed
trading branding irons for brand-name cuts
we were born in labor, baptized in dust
given life anew as a living trust
with every hair numbered and cross-referenced
for each soul they claim to save, they have added interest
with a price on your head, what you think matters not
every credit card statement, every lie you’ve bought
rates our exchanged faith for the next fiat
on the blotter paper, the blood don’t clot
it just bleeds you dry and then leaves you to rot
in a dead end job till at last you drop
into this old noose, with the rope drawn taut
left with your hands bound so they’ll never be caught
you may sabotage our education
to a calculated chaos born of confusion
a controlled market through the inflation
truly euthanasia to waste on the young
but, we’ve caught you now, and we’re cutting your funds
we outnumber you over a million to one
it’s a sharp weapon, but the point’s left blunt
there’s no skill to the game, no challenge to the hunt
with each target deaf, blind, and reticent
got your ducks in line for the same false front
cos when free will costs even ten percent
false tongues speak lies over catholic hunts
from the cathepsin to the cathexis
i’ll bear the stigmatic focus of the anti-catechist
with each catalytic pill slowly slitting my wrists
so when i raise my hand, see my bloody fist
may have killed brain cells, but i’ve kept my wits
and i'd rather go sooner to have known and said this
i’ve peaked at the end, where the answer sits
all the rest is just problems and more questions
hear the classes getting loud and the teacher getting pissed
in the end this pattern goes 666
soon my name’s showing up on every government list
free speech shouldn’t cost, let alone be a risk
so when i die young, it’ll prove me right
cos it won’t be pills, swear it won’t be the knife
no matter how hard it gets, i’m in this for life
and i’m never giving up till we make things right
god gave me this voice, so i can’t stay quiet
they can’t kill this love, i’ll come back to fight
to return each star and remove each stripe
from each prism cell, we’ll refract the light
to reveal each move, catch the thieves in the night
make them share what’s left and return our rights
though it may still shine from a hormone diet
this knowledgeable fruit’s grown overripe
and robbed his breath, birth absorbed he
when the planets line up, every eye shall see
that this invite-only disparity party
has brought enough despair to the already broken-hearted
in the wake of greed, in the name of flow-charting
leaving broken-homes where once were gardens
see it’s our pale horse that we’re riding in on
bringing pestilence as a plague of love
with hell at our heels and heaven catching on
it’s the hanged man, it’s the crux fiction
it’s the pentagram, it’s the pentagon
it’s david’s star, it’s the pyramid song
what was once upright
now is upside down
and isaiah, it’s a revelation 2368, 2701
means a way out
and if i can, you know i’m bringing everyone

A Discarded Presidential Speech

2004-12-19T17:10:00.000-05:00

While I have not taken to being politcal or attempting to pass judgement on our government, I have attempted in this piece to sum up my feelings concerning the Presidency and the state of our nation. I do not believe that President Bush is what is wrong with the United States and its current decline. I do, however, believe that the people themselves are everything that is wrong with it. If it doesn't make any sense, it is my fault for being a bad writer, but I hope you enjoy the piece nonetheless.

A Discarded Presidential Acceptance Speech, dated November 5th, 2004

First, I’d like to thank you for your support in our nation’s campaign for change and greatness. As the self-appointed leader of the glorious campaign, I stand before you, the half-disappointed population of this wonderful republic, a changed man; a new man you may not recognize. A man of battle-hardened values and conviction to the American dream that brought his great nation into existence. I’ve fought a long hard war against the democratic entity and persons that attempted to oust me from my entrenched tyranny, only to emerge victorious. Yet the fight is not over. Even now, after defeating my opponents, the ultimate goals of my party have yet to be realized. With the help of my most trusted and well-paid advisors, global domination is not outside our reach. Already we control the government, media, and economy of this great nation and now that our plans have been set in motion, we hope to control territories around the world by the end of the decade. And to think that this system at one time represented democracy; the political system that was once believed to have been the most beneficial to all its citizens. The irony of the situation is not lost on me but will be lost on many of those watching this broadcast.
Yes, I know, I was purported to be the epitome of the American cowboy, “going it alone” and all that... but in recent months I’ve made the decision to reveal my true identity and personality to the American public. While you thought me to be an exaggerated Texan rich boy with nothing but shit-kicking boots and a ten-gallon hat to represent my political strategies and wisdom, I am in fact a specially trained politician and part of a tremendously covert organization intent on toppling the failed United States government and bringing it to ruin. This may come as a shock to some of you, especially those below the Mason-Dixen Line, but the end result will surely remain the same, regardless of my own personality. No, contrary to what the many believe, religion and moral values are absolutely unimportant to politics. In my eyes, there is no problem betraying a nation that has already betrayed and doomed itself. Treasonous, you may argue, and perhaps this is true when applying the Webster’s definition of the term, but those who have the capacity for understanding already realize that it is too late and that such naive and provincial assessments have no place in the world’s future.
My cabinet is well-versed in the ways of political espionage and sabotage and now that we have infiltrated and taken control of the major branches of this worthless government, we intend to bring it and its people to their knees. Impossible, some may say, yet I stand here before you. You have elected me your ultimate representative and caretaker, despite the fact that I was the obviously wrong candidate. The stupidity of the majority has been tested by our operatives again and again over the years and the results of these experiments are evident in the current occupation of Iraq, for instance. The threat of terrorism, is in reality, an unrealistic preoccupation. The attacks on the United States which have become the foundation for my trite and tedious platform were orchestrated by our own operatives. Conspiracy theories aside, the truth behind my words can be ascertained by asking a simple question: How can you, the people of the most powerful nation in the world, possibly continue to support such an idiotic campaign? My group thought that at first the operation was too ambitious and that we may risk exposure in our attempts for globalized power, but we were baffled and astounded by your willingness to continue upholding a doomed banner in the name of democracy.
A number of advocates have even attempted to counteract our efforts by attacking our policies directly, specifically speaking, Jon Stewart and the like. But luckily, our associates in Walmart have taken advantage of their stranglehold on your pathetic “American” conscience and livelihood in order to limit the effects of his protests. Labeled leftist liberals, these few were the many’s only hope for a future of liberty and American ideals. Luckily for us, it seems that only the small minority among you have taken the time to truly analyze and critique the intentions of our “Republican” government and that is laughable. The American public’s willingness to comply and blind idolatry is the greatest joke of the century. Mark Twain, one of the most influential American satirists of all time, must be turning in his grave at the further degradation of a nation he once believed to be righteous and worthy of utter devotion. Furthermore, we find it hilarious that you have yet to learn from the mistakes of your past. You think yourselves the most advanced population in the world, yet you practice the same hypocritical and failed policies despite the fact that they are centuries-old. Your constitution is in shambles. Your rights are unclear. You live willingly in a police state that claims to be the shining beacon of all that is good and free. I digress...
We have not done these things because we hate the United States. We do these things because we believe in the ideals that once held this democracy above all other governments in the world. Those who fail to realize the truth in what I’ve said are traitors to themselves and the nation they claim to hold dear. It is sad that the majority will identify with failure while the few will be left to waste. We truly pity you. Now, since I know these justifications are almost entirely wasted on you, the tv-addicted, politically mindless, commercially-dependent majority of the nation, I will conclude my tirade, my attempt at requiem for those who will be left despondent and overwhelmed by the enormity of what has already occurred. For the few, I am sorry, but it is out of your hands. For those who are still skeptical, I finish my acceptance of the “prestigious” title of President with the assurance that the economy will continue to decline, our military will continue to be wasted until it is almost nonexistent (maybe we’ll even start that draft up... the rumors were leaks, but we cleared that issue up straightaway), the government will not attempt to correct the medicinal problems of the majority, and overall, we will continue to build on the failures that you, the people of America, have embraced. Goodnight, and God bless us all. Wait, I meant to say, God forgive you all.

God, You, and All Your Friends

2004-12-09T23:24:00.000-05:00

I've spent a long time staring at the sky of late. Today I watched a lost flock of geese fly along side a low-flying jet plane. I wondered what God would think of man's attempt to overcome the limitations of his creation. Men weren't meant to fly, but to tread upon the earth. But then again, man was made with the ability to dream... that has to count for something. Think about it.

You and God

Call on him, the long-sought savior,
Who has come to obliterate the wasted lives
With pupils that scream and dilate uncontrollably
After bombed-out sheltered years
Spent staring at a god hidden behind
Liquid laughing clouds and windows dripping rain
But all at once a mercurial flare
Beyond the bounds of a forgotten horizon
His imagination set loose, the words and dreams
Lit like tiny neon lights spread
Beneath a fluorescent expanse of sky
The deceiving colors of our silhouette eyes
A pause caught between a pair of palms that seem to know no age
The visage of a man who has come to undo all that he has made
In that moment steps filled with faith, conviction and yes, hate
Will lead the masses to a salvation
Rendered lost in countless nightmares
Doubtlessly poured from a mold long out of date
Perhaps better off if we would stay in our place

Long Time, No Speak

2004-12-01T16:05:00.000-05:00

It's been over a month since my last post and after making it a habit to keep the site fresh and up to date, I've descended into a kind of personal disappointment over my temporary failure. Many have been calling for a new piece of work and although things have been busy and my life's gone through drastic changes, I've had time to begin a few pieces and finish this one. I don't know how some will react to it, but approach its cliched yet timeless subject with a sense of novelty and I promise you will enjoy the poem. I make no excuses for the changes that have occurred, only that in this life and any other that may be waiting, the only honest pursuit is happiness. Love, truth, and peace are all fundamental for the complete fulfillment of a life otherwise spent in what most would consider a monotonous, never-ending cycle. I've been lucky enough to be given by the forces that govern these things a brief and much-needed respite from a chaotic existence. And in this time, detached and apart from what I never questioned or stood back and examined, I've found a mounting degree of happiness. I don't tell you this to make you jealous or spiteful, but to let you know that it's there, waiting for you. Although it may not be consistent and absolute, I know you can relate. I fear the words that follow fail to describe the peace of heart and mind bestowed upon me of late, but know that I am thankful for where I've been and where I'm going. Enjoy the poem and take it for what it is; like that cycle, there's always more to come.

A Dream

Would you find a way to your tired feet
In the dark to sing me fast asleep
Rhythm in time with your heart's calm beat
An ear to your chest, I feel the fatigue
In each honest note you so softly breathe
It's all right if you just can't stand to leave
There's room enough, you can sleep next to me
This night and next, for as long as you need.

Some dreams later the sun's helpless to rise
Desperate to burn as bright as your eyes
Careful fingers find their way into mine
And flinch for a moment at the sparks they alight
The clock is forgotten as minutes drift by
No need for words or meaningless time
Peace in my life, nothing's felt more right
Than the moments spent warm, in arms holding tight.

Smooth Running Gun

2004-11-05T01:22:00.000-05:00

Among all of the novels I've read, William Gibson's have been among the most influential. Intense, relevant, and gritty, his prose is more an exercise in modernized poetry for a technologically advanced, faster-than-the-speed-of-light society. His style is the stuff of legend, but sophisticated enough to remain unaware. For anyone interested in writing or quality fiction, there's something here for you. This is the first part of the first chapter of Gibson's work Count Zero.

Smooth Running Gun

They set a slamhound on Turner's trail in New Delhi, slotted it to his pheromones and the color of his hair, It caught up with him on a street called Chandni Chauk and came scrambling for his rented BMW through a forest of bare brown legs and pedicab tires. Its core was a kilogram of recrystallized hexogene and flaked TNT.
He didn't see it coming. The last he saw of India was the pink stucco facade of a place called the Khush-Oil Hotel.
Because he had a good agent, he had a good contract. Because he had a good contract, he was in Singapore an hour after the explosion. Most of him, anyway. The Dutch surgeon liked to joke about that, how an unspecfiiced percentage of Turner hadn't made it out of Palam International on that first flight and had to spend the night there in a shed, in a support vat.
It took the Dutchman and his team three months to put Turner together again. They cloned a square meter of skin for him, grew it on slabs of collagen and shark-cartilage polysacharides. They bought eyes and genitals on the open market. The eyes were green.
He spent most of those three months in a ROM-generated simstim construct of an idealized New England boyhood of the previous century. The Dutchman's visits were gray dawn dreams, nightmares that faded as the sky lightened byond his second-floor bedroom window. You could smell the lilacs, late at night. He read Conan Doyle by the light of a sixty-watt bulb behind a parchment shade printed with clipper ships. He masturbated in the smell of clean cotton sheets and thought about cheerleaders. The Dutchman opened a door in his back brain and came strolling in to ask questions, but in the morning his mother called him down to Wheaties, egss and bacon, coffee with milk and sugar.

He was good as new. How good was that? He didn't know. he took the things the Dutchman gave him and flew out of Singapore. Home was the next airport Hyatt.
And the next. And ever was.
He flew on. His credit chip was a rectangle of black mirror, edged with gold. People behind counters smiled when they saw it, nodded. Doors opened, closed behind him. Wheels left ferroconcrete, drinks arrived, dinner was served.
In Heathrow a vast chunk of memory detached itself from a blank bowl of airport sky and fell on him. He vomited into a blue plastic canister without breaking stride. When he arrived at the counter at the end of the corridor, he changed his ticket.
He flew to Mexico.

The room was a tall cave. bare white plaster reflected sound with too much clarity; somewhere beyond the clatter of the maids in the morning courtyard was the pounding of surf. The sheets bunched between his fingers were coarse chambray, softened by countless washings.
He remembered sunlight through a broad expanse of tinted window. An airport bar, Puerto Vallarta. He'd had to walk twenty meters from the plane, eyes screwed shut against the sun. He remembered a dead bat pressed flat as a dry leaf on runway concrete.
He remembered riding a bus, a mountain road, and the reek of internal combustion, the borders of the windshield plastered with postcard holograms of blue and pink saints. He'd ignored the steep scenery in favor of a sphere of pink lucite and the jittery dance of mercury at its core. The knob crowned the bent steel stem of the transmission lever, slightly larger than a baseball. It had been cast around a crouching spider blown from clear glass, hollow, half filled with quicksilver. Mercury jumped and slid when the driver slapped the bus through switchback curves, swayed and shivered in the straight-aways. The knob was ridiculous, handmade, baleful; it was there to welcome him back to Mexico.
Among the dozen-odd microsofts the Dutchman had given him was one that would allow a limited fluency in Spanish, but in Vallarta he'd fumbled behind his left ear and inserted a dustplug instead, hiding the socket and plug beneath a square of flesh-tone micropore. A passenger near the back of the bus had a radio. A voice had periodically interrupted the brassy pop to recite a kind of litany, strings of ten-digit figures, the day's winning numbers in the national lottery.
The woman beside him stirred in her sleep.
He raised himself on one elbow to look at her. A stranger's face, but not the one his life in hotels had taught him to expect. He would have expected a routine beauty, bred out of cheap elective surgery and the relentless Darwinism of fashion, an archetype cooked down from the major media faces of the previous five years.
Something Midwestern in the bone of the jaw, archaic and American. The blue sheets were rucked across her hips, the sunlight angling in through hardwood louvers to stripe her long thighs with diagonals of gold. The faces he woke with in the world's hotels were like God's own hood ornaments. Women's sleeping faces, identical and alone, naked, aimed straight out to the void. But this one was different. Already, somehow, there was meaning attached to it. Meaning and a name.
He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. His soles registered the grit of beach-sand on cool tile. There was a faint pervasive smell of insecticide. Naked, head throbbing, he stood. He made his legs move. Walked, tried the first of two doors, finding white tile, more white plaster, a bulbous chrome shower head hung from rust-spotted iron pipe. the sink's taps offered identical trickles of blood-warm water. An antique wristwatch lay beside a plastic tumbler, a mechanical Rolex on a pale leather strap.
The bathroom's shuttered windows were unglazed, strung with a fine green mesh of plastic. He peered out between hardwood slats, wincing at the hot clean sun, and saw a dry fountain of flower-painted tiles and the rusted carcass of a VW Rabbit.
Allison. That was her name.

She wore frayed khaki shorts and one of his white T-shirts. Her legs were very brown. The clockwork Rolex, with its dull stainless case, went around her left wrist on its pigskin strap. They went walking, down the curve of beach, toward Barre de Navidad. They kept to the narrow strip of firm wet sand above the line of surf.
Already they had a history together; he remembered her at a stall that morning in the little town's iron-roofed mercado, how she'd held the huge clay mug of boiled coffee in both hands. Mopping eggs and salsa from the cracked white plate with a tortilla, he'd watched flies circling fingers of sunlight that found their way through a patchwork of palm frond and corrugated siding. Some talk about her job with some legal firm in L.A., how she lived alone in one of the ramshackle pontoon towns tethered off Redondo. He'd told her he was in personnel. Or had been, anyway. "Maybe I'm looking for a new line of work..."
But talk seemed secondary to what there was between them, and now a frigate bird hung overhead, taking against the breeze, slid sideways, wheeled, and was gone. They both shivered with the freedom of it, the mindless glide of the thing. She squeezed his hand.
A blue figure came marching up the beach toward them, a military policeman headed for town, spitshined black boots unreal against the soft bright beach. As the man passed, his face dark and immobile beneath mirrored glasses, Turner noted the carbine-format Steiner-Optic laser with Fabrique Nationale sights. The blue fatigues were spotless, creased like knives.
Turner had been a soldier in his own right for most of his adult life, although he'd never worn a uniform. A mercenary, his employers vast corporations warring covertly for the control of entire economies. He was a specialist in the extraction of top executives and research people. The multinationals he worked for would never admit that men like Turner existed...
"You worked your way through most of a bottle of Heradura last night," she said.
He nodded. Her hand, in his, was warm and dry. He was watching the spread of her toes with each step, the nails painted with chipped pink gloss.
The breakers rolled in, their edges transparent as green glass.
The spray beaded on her tan.

From Afar

2004-10-21T21:07:00.000-04:00

I'm trying to figure out why I seem to have a tendency to focus on the more depressing aspects of life lately. Perhaps it has something to do with recent developments... I'm trying really hard to write a more enjoyable poem, I swear! Things have been looking up for a change, but this is still the best I've got recently. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this one that I'm still working on perfecting. Oh, and in case you haven't been reading the archived stuff, I've done some major revisions to "Beyond" and "Exit Sign."

From Afar

If you shoot me from afar
I won't even see it coming
With a bullet through my back
I'll die with both feet running
Better yet, why not the head?
No need to check, you'll know I'm dead
My heart's off key, now lost the beat
So pray the lord my soul to keep
But then again, who am I?
Besides another blackened, sightless eye
That stares, half-closed, upon the world
Forgotten to feel or wonder why
You stand alone in a static room
With photos of people you never knew
My heart's still bleeding, so hard at work
Filming each moment of hope, loss and pain
To play in theaters of memory again
Most prized possessions,
My words, turned to hate
No longer noble they hurt
Want to fight back and break

Tender

2004-10-21T16:53:00.000-04:00

An anthem for those that hurt and carry on.

Tender
blur

Tender is the night, lying by your side
Tender is the touch of someone that you love too much
Tender is the day the demons go away
Lord I need to find someone who can heal my mind

Come on, come on, come on, Get through it
Come on, come on, come on, Love's the greatest thing
Come on, come on, come on, Get through it
Come on, come on, come on, Love's the greatest thing that we have
I'm waiting for that feeling, I'm waiting for that feeling
Waiting for that feeling to come

Oh my baby

Tender is the ghost, the ghost I love the most
Hiding from the sun, waiting for the night to come
Tender is my heart, for screwing up my life
Lord I need to find someone who can heal my mind

Come on, come on, come on, Get through it
Come on, come on, come on, Love's the greatest thing
Come on, come on, come on, Get through it
Come on, come on, come on, Love's the greatest thing that we have
I'm waiting for that feeling, I'm waiting for that feeling
Waiting for that feeling to come

Oh my baby...

The Storm

2004-10-07T14:39:00.000-04:00

This piece is old. Perhaps one of the first that I wrote, even. You think you've moved on, you think you've forgotten, but some things, like love, never seem to truly die. This poem puts the flesh on the skeleton of my emotions, since recently there doesn't seem to be even that little left of me. Some things are better left unsaid, and although this piece may seem like the corniest thing ever written, I know it can be extremely relevant to anyone who reads it. Perhaps I'm giving myself too much credit, but... don't cry?

The Storm

I've never seen a more threatening sky
Or felt more reason to call God and cry
The passion and love you always showed to me
Were ever my shelter, what I hoped they would be

But now angel tears seem to drown out the rain
Impossible to mask the un-Godly pain
The clouds, the angel's dampened wings
Stay closed, for they cannot fly or sing

Forevermore it will all burn away
And in the shadows of cinders we'll continue to play
Plunge through the cold, the ice blue nights
And into the day our eyes open to light
Eclipsed by spires of dust, ash, and stone
I find myself, finally, with angels, alone.

And though those tears for a time drown out the pain
They scorch the sky eternally, a torrent of wrath and flame
Moving His mountains, burning my bridges
Leaving our world dead, dark, and frigid

Now the sky, as it bursts open wide
The light burns down in the brightest of white
For me and you, forever below
The tears of angels continue to flow

Now for a time it will all burn away
In the shadows of cinders we'll continue to play
Plunge through the cold, the ice blue nights
And on through the day our eyes open to light
Eclipsed by spires of dust, ash, and stone
I find myself, finally, without angels, alone.

Journalism in Tennessee

2004-09-27T16:12:00.000-04:00

I'm a month into my 300-level Mark Twain-focused English class and I'll tell you: it's going better than expected. Most things are looking up in a surprising turnaround from a couple weeks gone past and they seem to just keep getting better. I know the trend can't last forever, but I hope to enjoy it while I can. As for this entry, it is definitely the longest I've posted so far. Mark Twain's work has been more of a suprise for me than anything: I didn't expect to like it as much as I do. The short story that follows is one of the few short stories that I have genuinely enjoyed, as I usually don't enjoy the terse and limited quality. I figure I should take advantage of my temporary fascination with prose and get as much out of it as I can before winter rolls around and the season draws me toward my poetry. So, more than being a good short story, it made me laugh. The amount of CNN I watch is sometimes apalling and my fading faith in journalism and American politics is perpetually in development. Considering the crack journalism that flows through our culture's mainstream, I wholeheartedly believe that the method employed by the editors of various papers in this story should be put into effect immediately across the nation. We'd all be much better off. The story focuses on similar themes while adding a tremendous amount of ridiculous humor. Moreso, I thought it extremely relevant to the general theme of this website: "no truth like a bullet." In the business of uncovering truths, journalists in Mark Twain's world seem to indeed know no truth like that of a bullet. As an aspiring writer myself, and for all those who read and write, there's a lesson in this for all. Enough said. Laughs to follow.

Journalism in Tennessee
mark twain

The editor of the Memphis Avalanche swoops thus mildly down upon a correspondent who posted him as a Radical: "While he was writing the first word, the middle, dotting his i's, crossing his t's, and punching his period, he knew he was concocting a sentence that was saturated with infamy and reeking with falsehoods." Exchange

I was told by the physician that a Southern climate would improve my health, and so I went down to Tennessee, and got a berth on the Morning Glory and Johnson County War-Whoop as associate editor. When I went on duty I found the chief editor sitting tilted back in a three-legged chair with his feet on a pine table. There was another pine table in the room and another afflicted chair, and both were half buried under newspapers and scraps and sheets of manuscript. There was a wooden box of sand, sprinkled with cigar stubs and "old soldiers," and a stove with a door hanging by its upper hinge. The chief editor had a long-tailed black cloth frock-coat on, and white linen pants. His boots were small and neatly blacked. He wore a ruffled shirt, a large seal-ring, a standing collar of obsolete pattern, and a checkered neckerchief with the ends hanging down. Date of costume about 1848. He was smoking a cigar, and trying to think of a word, and in pawing his hair he rumpled his locks a good deal. He was scowling fearfully, and I judged that he was concocting a particularly knotty editorial. He told me to take the exchanges and skim through them and write up the "Spirit of the Tennessee Press," condensing into the article all of their contents that seemed of interest. I wrote as follows:

SPIRIT OF THE TENNESSEE PRESS
The editors of the Semi-Weekly Earthquake evidently labor under a misapprehension with regard to the Balyhack railroad. It is not the object of the company to leave Buzzardville off to one side. On the contrary, they consider it one of the most important points along the line, and consequently can have no desire to slight it. The gentlemen of the Earthquake will, of course, take pleasure in making the correction.
John W. Blossom, Esq., the able editor of the Higginsville Thunderbolt and Battle Cry of Freedom, arrived in the city yesterday. He is stopping at the Van Buren House.
We observe that our contemporary of the Mud Springs Morning Howl has fallen into the error of supposing that the election of Van Werter is not an established fact, but he will have discovered his mistake before this reminder reaches him, no doubt. He was doubtless misled by incomplete election returns.
It is pleasant to note that the city of Blathersville is endeavoring to contract with some New York gentlemen to pave its well-night impassable streets with the Nicholson pavement. The Daily Hurrah urges the measure with ability, and seems confident of ultimate success.

I passed my manuscript over to the chief editor for acceptance, alteration, or destruction. He glanced at it and his face clouded. He ran his eye down the pages, and his countenance grew portentous. It was easy to see that something was wrong. Presently he sprang up and said:
"Thunder and lightning! Do you suppose I am going to speak of those cattle that way? Do you suppose my subscribers are going to stand such gruel as that? Give me the pen!"
I never saw a pen scrape and scratch its way so viciously, or plow through another man's verbs and adjectives so relentlessly. While he was in the midst of his work, somebody shot at him through the open window, and marred the symmetry of my ear.
"Ah," said he, "that is that scoundrel Smith, of the Moral Volcano - he was due yesterday." And he snatched a navy revolver from his belt and fired. Smith dropped, shot in the thigh. The shot spoiled Smith's aim, who was just taking a second chance, and he crippled a stranger. It was me. Merely a finger shot off.
Then the chief editor went on with his erasures and interlineations. Just as he finished then a hand-grenade came down the stove-pipe, and the explosion shivered the stove into a thousand fragments. However, it did no further damage, except that a vagrant piece knocked a couple of my teeth out.
"That stove is utterly ruined," said the chief editor.
I said I believed it was.
"Well, no matter - don't want it this kind of weather. I know the man that did it. I'll get him. Now, here is the way this stuff out to be written." I took the manuscript. It was scarred with erasures and interlineations till its mother wouldn't have known it if it had had one. It now read as follows:

SPIRIT OF TENNESSEE PRESS
The inveterate liars of the Semi-Weekly Earthquake are evidently endeavoring to palm off upon a noble and chivalrous people another of their vile and brutal falsehoods with regard to that most glorious conception of the nineteenth century, the Ballyhack railroad. The idea that Buzzardville was to be left off at one side originated in their own fulsome brains - or rather in the settlings which they regard as brains. They had better swallow this lie if they want to save their abandoned reptile carcasses the cowhiding they so richly deserve.
That ass, Blossom, of the Higginsville Thunderbolt and Battle Cry of Freedom, is down here again sponging at the van Buren.
We observe that the besotted blackguard of the Mud Springs Morning Howl is giving out, with his usual prosperity for lying, that Van Werter is not elected. The heaven-born mission of journalism is to disseminate truth; to eradicate error; to educate, refine, and elevate the tone of public morals and manners, and make all men more gentle, more virtuous, more charitable, and in all ways better, and holier, and happier; and yet this black-hearted scoundrel degrades his great office persistently to the dissemination of falsehood, calumny, vituperation, and vulgarity.
Balthersville wants a Nicholson pavement - it wants a jail and a poorhouse more. The idea of a pavement in a one-horse town composed of two gin-mills, a blacksmith shop, and that mustard-plaster of a newspaper, the Daily Hurrah! The crawling insect, Buckner, who edits the Hurrah, is braying about his business with his customary imbecility, and imagining he is talking sense.

"Now that is the way to write - peppery and to the point. Mush-and-milk journalism gives me the fan-tods."
About this time a brick came through the window with a splintering crash, and gave me a considerable of a jolt in the back. I moved out of range - I began to feel in the way.
The chief said, "That was the Colonel, likely. I've been expecting him for two days. He will be up now right away."
He was correct. The Colonel appeared in the door a moment afterward with a dragoon revolver in his hand.
He said, "Sir, have I the honor of addressing the poltroon who edits this mangy sheet?"
"You have. Be seated, sir. Be careful of the chair, one of its legs is gone. I believe I have the honor of addressing the putrid liar, Colonel Blatherskite Tecumesh?"
"Right, sir. I have a little account to settle with you. If you are at leisure we will begin."
"I have an article on the 'Encouraging Progress of Moral and Intellectual Development in America' to finish, but there is no hurry. Begin."
Both pistols rang out their fierce clamor at the same instant. The chief lost a lock of his hair, and the Colonel's bullet ended its career in the fleshy part of my thigh. The Colonel's left shoulder was clipped a little. They fired again. Both missed their men this time, but I got my share, a shot in the arm. At the third fire both gentlemen were wounded slightly, and I had a knuckle chipped. I then said, I believed I would go out and take a walk, as this was a private matter, and I had a delicacy about participating in it further. But both gentlemen begged me to keep my seat. And assured me that I was not in the ay.
They then talked about the elections and the crops while they reloaded, and I fell to trying up my wounds. But presently they opened fire again with animation, and every shot took effect - but it is proper to remark that five out of the six fell to my share. The sixth one mortally wounded the Colonel, who remarked, with fine humor, that he would have to say good morning now, as he had business uptown. He then inquired the way to the undertaker's and left.
The chief turned to me and said, "I am expecting company to dinner, and shall have to get ready. It will be a favor to me if you will read proof and attend to the customers."
I winced a little at the idea of attending to the customers, but I was too bewildered by the fusillade that was still ringing in my ears to think of anything to say.
He continued, "Jones will be here at three - cowhide him. Gillespie will call earlier, perhaps - throw him out the window. Ferguson will be along about four - kill him. That is all for today, I believe. If you have any odd time, you may write a blistering article on the police - give the chief inspector rats. The cowhides are under the table; weapons in the drawer - ammunition there in the corner - lint and bandages up there in the pigeonholes. In case of accident, go to Lancet, the surgeon, downstairs. He advertises - we take it out in trade."
He was gone. I shuddered. At the end of the next three hours I had been through perils so awful that all peace of mind and all cheerfulness were gone from me. Gillespie had called and thrown me out of the window. Jones arrived promptly, and when I got ready to do the cowhiding he took the job off my hands. In an encounter with a stranger, not in the bill of fare, I had lost my scalp. Another stranger, by the name of Thompson, left me a mere wreck and ruin of chaotic rags. And at last, at bay in the corner, and beset by an infuriated mob of editors, blacklegs, politicians, and desperadoes, who raved and swore and flourished their weapons about my head till the air shimmered with glancing flashes of steel, I was in the act of resigning my berth on the paper when the chief arrived, and with him a rabble of charmed and enthusiastic friends. Then ensued a scene of riot and carnage such as no human pen, or steel one either, could describe. People were shot, probed, dismembered, blown up, thrown out of the window. There was a brief tornado of murky blasphemy, with a confused and frantic war-dance glimmering through it, and then all was over. In five minutes there was silence, and the gory chief and I sat alone and surveyed the sanguinary ruin that strewed the floor around us.
He said, "You'll like this place when you get used to it."
I said, "I'll have to get you to excuse me; I think maybe I might write to suit you after a while; as soon as I had had some practice and learned the language I am confident I could. But, to speak the plain truth, that sort of energy of expression has its inconveniences, and a man is liable to interruption. You see that yourself. Vigorous writing is calculated to elevate the public, no doubt, but then I do not like to attract so much attention as it calls forth. I can't write with comfort when I am interrupted so much as I have been today. I like this berth well enough, but I don't like to be left here to wait on the customers. The experiences are novel, I grant you, and entertaining, too, after a fashion, but they are not judiciously distributed. A gentleman shoots at you through the window and cripples me; a bombshell comes down the stovepipe for your gratification and sends the stove door down my throat; a friend drops in to swap compliments with you, and freckles me with bullet-holes till my skin won't hold my principles; you go to dinner, and Jones comes with his cowhide, Gillespie throws me out of the window, Thompson tears all my clothes off, and an entire stranger takes my scalp with the easy freedom of an old acquaintance; and in less than five minutes all the blackguards in the country arrive in their warpaint, and proceed to scare the rest of me to death with their tomahawks. Take it altogether, I never had such a spirited time in all my life as I have had today. No; I like you, and I like your calm unruffled way of explaining things to the customers, but you see I am not used to it. The Southern heart is too impulsive; Southern hospitality is too lavish with the stranger. The paragraphs which I have written today, and into whose cold sentences your masterly hand has infused the fervent spirit of Tennesseean journalism, will wake up another nest of hornets. All that mob of editors will come - and they will come hungry, too, and want somebody for breakfast. I shall have to bid you adieu. I decline to be present at these festivities. I came South for my health, I will go back on the same errand, and suddenly. Tennesseean journalism is too stirring for me."
After which we parted with mutual regret, and I took apartments at the hospital.

Lonely Man's Wallet

2004-09-24T18:12:00.000-04:00

This is another one of those songs that I secretly wish I had written myself. The Exit is a band I got into late last semester and although they only have one album out, I think they are one of the few truly talented I've come across in a long while. If you like the Police, you would more than likely enjoy their music - give it a try. In terms of structure, intensity, and depth, this one's got it all. I love it and you should too. Although a little depressing, it sums up those feelings of loneliness perfectly that tend to plague us all from time to time, in particular, the eternal quest to find some kind of happiness and means of escaping pain.

Lonely Man's Wallet
the exit

A lonely man smokes his last cigarette
As the cold breeze enters the bar
Still afraid from what he is
There's only so much gin can fix
I've written pages in the book
Big enough for chapters
The hurt won't leave when will it quit
I'm gonna throw it all away
So don't try and stop me
I'm not me

And as the hours pass on by
A lonely heart beats on in time
Living's become only existing
And that's just what people do
Get in the car and drive on home
Eight years becomes a lifetime
I'm gonna take this car off the side
Gonna throw it all away
So don't try and stop me
I'm not me...

They found his wallet in the wreck
An ace of clubs and ninety cents
Don't want to have to tell the story of his tortured soul
But I seem him every day
Mirrors open up the room they say
I'm not me...
Gonna throw it all away
So don't try and stop me
I'm not me
I'm not me.

Beyond

2004-09-20T21:01:00.000-04:00

The onset of autumn brings with it cold winds, yes, but sometimes even colder thoughts. Well, it depends on how you look at it. This is my newest.

Beyond

I give dying leaves back to the trees, both hands overflown
Like faceless lives, seasons of me, turn colors fading brown
Solid despite frailty, like borders marked by grass and sand
I long for new horizons, a glimpse beyond the waste lands
To keep from bleeding red away, paint brighter blue than day
But tossed aside for a darker sky than ever there were eyes

It is that time of year again when you mistake footsteps in the yard
For the smokey crackle of forgotten trees that didn't grow too old
Ancient ashes blow aside and meet a welcome end
Safe among the company of long-dead and selfish friends
Despite all of the tricks, and a creeping sense of fear
Dying alone meant less than ever it appeared

A new month comes around, new chance to burn what's been
Left behind by an absent man, his wishes still imagine
His first true home, an earth-born hole, waits patiently at hand
Giving warmth and feeding truths thought only meant for him
Ignoring drowned out times when feet so sure sink deep
And thoughts like these, so relevant and clear
Seem nothing more than dreams.

Sympathy For The Devil

2004-09-20T20:14:00.000-04:00

This is one of those songs that just never seems to die or grow old, regardless of how many times I listen to it. There are those among my faithful readers who will instantly recognize the true significance of this posting, that being, the song's relation to the Dark Tower and more specifically the jovial, ever-popular, Man in Black. Walter? Walkin' Dude? Satan? Well, you know the rest. Furthermore, the Rolling Stones play a pivotal role in the story, a la 19th Nervous Breakdown, Paint It Black. Sadly, the Dark Tower journey is coming to an end. The last book in the epic comes out tomorrow, the 21st. I already know that no matter how ecstatic I am to finally be reading the conclusion of one of the most influential and important stories in my life, I will be deeply saddened when it is finally at an end. A casual reader may take this kind of sorrow as a shortcoming of my own emotional stability but nevertheless, reading the books has been a lasting and emotional experience. The adventure is nearly over and the characters I've grown to love (Roland, especially) will shortly be leaving and gone forever. Anyone who has read the books can relate, I'm sure. Well, in any case, enjoy the song. There will more than likely be followups, mourning the conclusion of the Dark Tower saga. Until then...

Sympathy For The Devil
rolling stones

Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man's soul and faith
And I was around when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed his fate
Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game

I stuck around St. Petersburg
When I saw it was a time for a change
Killed the Czar and his ministers
Anastasia screamed in vain
I rode a tank, held a General's rank
When the Blitzkrieg raged
And the bodies stank
Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name
Ah, what's puzzling you is the nature of my game

I watched with glee
While your kings and queens
Fought for ten decades
For the gods they made
I shouted out, Who killed the Kennedys?
When after all it was you and me
Let me introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
And I laid traps for troubadours
Who get killed before they reached bombay
Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game
Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name
But what's confusing you is just the nature of my game

Just as every cop is a criminal
And all the sinners saints
As heads is tails
Just call me Lucifer
Cause I'm in need of some restraint
So if you meet me, have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
Use all your well-learned politesse
Or I'll lay your soul to waste
Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name
But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game

Tell me baby, what's my name?
Tell me honey, can ya guess my name?
Tell me baby, what's my name?
I tell you one time: you're to blame.

To Leave It All Behind

2004-09-14T23:52:00.000-04:00

I'm trying hard to forget how the walls are closing in. I'm typically not one for sentimentality, but this was one of the most memorable experiences in my life. Although it seems like I'm showcasing my work in this blog, I have to admit that my account of this event does it no justice. I figured it was worth a try, if only to make myself smile. It does make me smile. With any luck it will do the same for you. The winter's coming. Better start wrapping that cold soul up and down in blankets.

March:

Today I beheld a fantastic sight. I left this morning before the sun was at its highest point in the sky. I drove up what amounts to little more than a mountain pass; you’d think it only a single-lane road, hardly wide enough for a car like mine to fit through. It is in fact wide enough to accommodate two cars, perhaps even the most wonderful of wonders if one were to really test it. I turned onto this road, a path kept clean and sure by the expanse of trees on each side, silently protected from dreams not worthy of its beauty. Above, the tree branches created a warm roof and through its patchwork ceiling, the blue sky was reflected a million times over by an unobstructed sun. No clouds in sight. At first I was confused as to what was falling on my windshield, blurring my vision and confusing my senses, but as I looked down the road, forgetting my foot and accelerating, I discovered it was snowing. Beautiful and pure, white snow seemed to be falling from the sky when in fact I knew it to be impossible. How could skies as innocent as those above possibly give way to such an amazingly mischievous event? The snow fell, and as it hit the pavement, steam rose instantly from its point of contact, evaporating up to start over again. It all felt so much like a dream. Snow was falling from the blue, bright sky without a single cloud to blame. More than a dream, I thought it a miracle meant only for me and meant only for my soul. Needless to say, I needed it. I cherished the moment as one of the few I have found worthy of memory in a long time. For that moment, nothing was wrong in the world - everything was right.

An Experiment

2004-09-13T16:48:00.000-04:00

I decided to try something new for a change. Tell me what you think of this piece of prose, comprised mainly of things I've written in the past but largely edited so as to make myself sound even a little bit better. I needed it. So anyway, try this on for size.

In life there is nothing more spectacular than a man able to command so much power within himself whereas he is able to destroy the standards of society; to sever the arms and hands that would have once held him back, and to leap off the cliff into the tempestuous winds of life and change. These winds may forever blow you toward the future across what is often a vast, dark, turbulent sea, but you must not forget to look behind - where you’ve been, the things you’ve done, and the perilous stretches of ocean you’ve conquered - to accurately and realistically judge if the course you’re taking is the one on which you’d want to spend your journey. I long for real freedom, almost to the point of violent frustration. I would love to one day walk in the snow for miles, look back one moment and find no footprints but my own, hoping that the sheet of snow stretched out around me would maintain its frozen crystal purity forever. When a thing of such intense beauty is made a reality, I would hardly believe it to be nothing but a sign of oncoming apocalypse. Like Rome before it, our great society will fall due to the wasteful preoccupation with hollow education and non-philosophical, non-sense banter. Apathy and frivolity have infected humanity. Sometimes I feel as though the only way to save myself is to bask in the glory of my personally constructed delusion and fantasy. But in spite of my efforts, old speculations and accusations remain correct and bombard my conscience on a continual basis: Our souls, if ever a thing existed, are at stake. And if it’s not our souls, it’s our humanity. I watch the people around me and I feel as though they are trying desperately to fit into some skewed misconception of what the world’s supposed to be. As if they’re living vicariously through MTV. Pixels are replacing emotion faster than the rate of technological development. Even though I hope there is a glimmer of originality in my tirade, I can’t avoid the glaringly obvious fact that it is repetitive in nature. As passionate as I am, I feel as though I’ve been here before, recycled and cheap. Perhaps we were better off without our coveted knowledge in the grand scheme of things. God knows it isn’t getting us anywhere fast except for millions dead and a whole lot more waiting in line. Hell, we would have saved ourselves a lot of time and effort. Right now, in spite of my general tendencies toward hope and optimism, I cannot help thinking that ours is a deservedly doomed collection of dust. Can we call ourselves human beings? Like so many philosophers of the modern era even my senseless rambling has become the cliche I have tried desperately to avoid. Shells of humans? I think so. In fact, there is probably no question about it - the idea that the general, non-thinking populace cannot escape the inevitable disease that is stupidity is a prophecy from ages past. It’s been this way for years. We’re just helping it along. We’re not changing, we’re enforcing. The shit that spouts from another ignorant person’s mouth doesn’t mean a thing, but in order to be validated by the society and culture in which I live, I must listen to this. What kind of prerequisite is that? Our society and culture is so contradictory and hypocritical that it thrives on said indiscretion. It’s surprising it doesn’t implode, collapse within upon itself. What keeps it standing? Some days I feel as though the only purpose in life that can ever matter is the pursuit and consequential destruction of the invisible, cracked and disintegrating pillars that we rely on for support and maybe even purpose. I feel as though there is could be one person, alone, whose job it is to sit with his finger on a button, everyday engaging in a misunderstood internal dialogue born of the predicament centuries old: “What’s the point of it all? What’s the purpose of life?” With any luck it’s not as simplistic as that, but on some level I think it is a fundamental truth which even we, the supposedly enlightened, the cream of the crop, cannot escape. We are all doomed to the same fate.

Vindicated

2004-09-03T01:50:00.000-04:00

Although this may not be one of his best songs and far from his most emotionally touching stuff, I love this song by Dashboard Confessional. It's one of those rare songs that makes it not on being clever, original, or really all that rocking, but on the simple fact that anyone can relate. The message of the song is simplistic but effective: it means something to be a better person and it can change your life for the best. A pop song? Yes. But an awesome song nonetheless.

Vindicated
dashboard confessional

Hope dangles on a string
Like slow spinning redemption
Winding in and winding out
The shine of it has caught my eye.
And roped me in
So mesmerizing, so hypnotizing
I am captivated...

I am vindicated
I am selfish, I am wrong
I am right, I swear I'm right
I swear I knew it all along
And I am flawed
But I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself.

So clear
Like the diamond in your ring
Cut to mirror your intentions
Oversized and overwhelmed
The shine of which has caught my eye
And rendered me so isolated, so motivated
I am certain now that

I am vindicated
I am selfish, I am wrong
I am right, I swear I'm right
I swear I knew it all along
And I am flawed
But I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself.

So turn up the corners of your lips
Part them and feel my finger tips
Trace the moment, fall forever
Defense is paper thin
Just one touch and I'd be in
Too deep now to ever swim against the current
So let me slip away
So let me slip away
So let me slip away
So let me slip against the current
So let me slip away...

I am vindicated
I am selfish, I am wrong
I am right, I swear I'm right
I swear I knew it all along
And I am flawed
But I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself...

Slight hope
It dangles on a string
Like slow spinning redemption...

Just Kiss Me Before I Go

2004-08-30T15:11:00.000-04:00

Just for you.

Nightingale
saves the day

And I will flail under these lights
That seep down from the bitter sky tonight
And I will kick and beat my wrists together
And feel an ocean breathing waves, feel them licking at my face.
Ceilings don't exist and there are no floors beneath me.
If I were king of this night, would you become my queen?

And I hope, your majesty, that you like your position.
I'll do everything I can to keep you by my side
And I'll stare off through the darkness to find us a kingdom.
Just kiss me before I go.

I'll have to walk a thousand miles just to find the ground deserving of your feet.
You could throw me down and walk on me
And I'd just look on through my love and through the haze.
And I hope, your majesty that you like your position.
I'll do everything I can to keep you by my side
And I'll stare off through the darkness to find us a kingdom.
Just kiss me before I go.

The nightingales are singing now.
They're calling out our marriage to our subjects on their knees.
Their jewelery is thrown into the air.
They sigh at their release as their shackles hit the ground.
The trumpets call out now.
We're home at last.

And I hope, your majesty, that you like your position.
I'll do everything I can to keep you by my side
And I'll stare off through the darkness to find us a kingdom.
Just kiss me before I go.

A Love Song

2004-08-27T16:39:00.000-04:00

I think this one's pretty obvious.

A Love Song

I've been thinking lately
That it's time to stop preaching
And give up on wishful thinking
You're often so busy with your gaze cast aside
That all I can pray for is to look in your eyes
So stare through me for forever
As long as you don't cry
Leaping down from each pedestal
Is tough but worth a try
You can watch from the side
As they fall away with my pride
And I hope a parachute is strapped on tight
Maybe the one you made for me last Christmas
Sewn from silk a faded white
Patched together from those dreams
Caught in the net tacked above your bed
You thought it best to save
For rainy days that never came.
Still I hope the day comes around again
When dreams are penned by our own two hands
The ones I'll build for you this Christmas
Will be so White and Bold and True and Bright
Enough to make my heart's desire known
And for your perfect understanding
I'd have nothing but a kiss for you
Cause I've been thinking lately
That's time to stop the preaching
And give up on wishful thinking
All the dreams we ever wanted
Are already ours, hopeful and waiting.

Baddest Motherfucker in the World (Part 2)

2004-08-24T16:47:00.000-04:00

I don't think there's much to explain about this second piece of prose that I had to put up in light of my previous post. If you haven't seen Pulp Fiction then you should, and if you have, go see it again. It's not my favorite movie of all time, but it does have some very memorable pieces. Take for example this speech made by the one and only Samuel L. Jackson. His character's name is Jules and in this particular scene he is confronting one of the various lowlife thugs that are prevelant in his line of work (that being his being hired as a hitman). And although the verse he quotes isn't really in the Bible at all, it still makes him sound like one hell of a badass. Which of course, I know we can all appreciate.

Pulp Fiction
directed by quentin tarantino

Jules: You read the Bible?

Ringo: Not regularly.

Jules: There's a passage I got memorized. Ezekiel 25:17. "The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you." I been sayin' that shit for years. And if you ever heard it, it meant your ass. I never really questioned what it meant. I thought it was just a cold-blooded thing to say to a motherfucker before you popped a cap in his ass. But I saw some shit this mornin' made me think twice. Now I'm thinkin' it could mean you're the evil man. And I'm the righteous man. And Mr. .45 here, he's the shepherd protecting my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could be you're the righteous man and I'm the shepherd and it's the world that's evil and selfish. I'd like that. But that shit ain't the truth. The truth is you're the weak. And I'm the tyranny of evil men. But I'm tryin, Ringo. I'm tryin real hard to be the shepherd.

Baddest Motherfucker in the World

2004-08-24T14:08:00.000-04:00

I was flipping through my old copy of Snow Crash today - great book written by Neal Stephenson - and I came across this dog-eared page. First of all, this book is awesome and if you haven't read it already, I highly recommend it. If the following passage doesn't convince you I guess you'll have to take my word for it. And if you like Snow Crash you should also check out Cryptonomicon - also a great read. Second of all, I guess it would help if I gave you a little bit of background info. In short, "Hiro" is the protagonist of the novel, and conveniently enough, his full name is "Hiro Protagonist." Don't read into it too much - he can be a major asshole but he's still an amazing character. Currently, he is in search of his nemesis, referred to as "Raven" in this passage. Now, Raven is pretty cool and as you'll learn, a real badass. The other thing you should know about Raven is that he is a widely-known and much-feared killer who in fact rides around on a jacked-up motorcycle that instead of a sidecar has a HYDROGEN BOMB riding shotgun. So yeah, although I don't normally post prose, here is one of my favorite passages in all of literature. I think it's pretty obvious why... "badmotherfuckerdom"? Come on, you know it's an awesome word.

Snow Crash (chapter 36)
neal stephenson

Until a man is twenty-five, he still thinks, every so often, that under the right circumstances he could be the baddest motherfucker in the world. If I moved to a martial-arts monastery in China and studied real hard for ten years. If my family was wiped out by Colombian drug dealers and I swore myself to revenge. If I got a fatal disease, had one year to live, devoted it to wiping out street crime. If I just dropped out and devoted my life to being bad.
Hiro used to feel that way, too, but then he ran into Raven. In a way, this is liberating. He no longer has to worry about trying to be the baddest motherfucker in the world. The position is taken. The crowning touch, the one thing that really puts true world-class badmotherfuckerdom totally out of reach, of course, is the hydrogen bomb. If it wasn't for the hydrogen bomb, a man could still aspire. Maybe find Raven's Achilles' heel. Sneak up, get a drop, slip a mickey, pull a fast one. But Raven's nuclear umbrella kind of puts the world title out of reach.
Which is okay. Sometimes it's all right just to be a little bad. To know your limitations. Make do with what you've got.

A Shameless Exercise in Misunderstanding

2004-08-21T16:10:00.000-04:00

In my opinion, there are way too many of these kinds of poems floating around out there, most of which have been transformed into the often-mocked musical genre referred to as "emo." I'm a pretty big fan of "emo." Which is why I felt I could ignore the cliche of bad dreams like this one and try my best to get this particularly bad dream down in words. Who knows? Like the poem says, maybe this time I could get lucky and understand myself better. Maybe the meaning of life will reveal itself like a deer's eyes in headlights (hopefully not a second too late). So yes, this seems to be another exercise in self-loathing, but I promise it's only temporary. Like so many others before it, this is just another one of those "bad" dreams. Maybe you'll get lucky too and realize something before it's too late.

Bad Dream

You can find me on the edge of it all,
On the edge of my bed again.
Look back behind me and I know you'd ask
Are those sweat stains on the sheets?
Yes, they are. I know they look like paint but
Do these circumstances give weight to lies?
Covers thrown aside, and staring at the wall,
Set pieces all around
You'd think it's painted white
But no, it's only mottled gray
With a tendencey towards black.
Pillows found their way to the floor long ago
Torn from seam to seam
And the bed tries to keep itself warm,
Wishing so hard it wasn't left out in the cold.
The wishful thinking gets me every time,
Right up there with the best intentions.
For a second I wonder what I'm thinking,
Like I've missed a line on the cards.
As if one lucky member of the studio audience
Could walk away the proud owner of a better understanding.
Perhaps, if you're lucky, it could be you!
Cue the canned laughter, set the "Applause" light on fire.
Zoom into my empty gaze and hold for just a second
Try to understand the gravity
Because this morning hands flew up to claw my face
I tried to knock them away until I realized they were my own.
And believe me when I felt some shame
At the thought I was alone.
Cut the scene and crash backstage
I wonder who am I? Besides another blackened eye
Staring blankly through my half-closed lids,
Seeing nothing more than a blurry impression
And a tireless scene lost upon
Screens and screens and screams and screams...
I want so bad to live as though I'm few and far between
But I know my power cord is only 50 feet
Long enough to let me reach the bathroom,
Maybe stretch to brush my teeth.
If only someone could throw me a polished pair of scissors
To reflect on me the emptiness of this life.
When I watch it for myself I'll do my best not to bleed.
I need the hands nice and clean to answer the howling phone.
The bleeding is their privelage alone,
Those demons on the other end
The signal's fading but not intent
I can tell they're too busy this morning
To just stand by and watch
Yes, they're busy with their business
Not brushing but sharpening their teeth.

Master Chief

2004-08-20T01:42:00.000-04:00

I found this quiz on another person's blog... it may seem random in the context of my previous posts, but those who know me best know this means a lot to me. It's ridiculous to think that one of these quizzes truly tells you anything about yourself - they're just a gag, really - but I proudly scored this outcome without thinking about my answers... It may not mean much, but it just goes to show you that despite all the heartfelt poetry and supposed sophistication, sometimes all I want is to be a strong leader and timeless hero. Perhaps not the most original desire, but it means more than you might think...

I Will Play My Game Beneath the Spin Light

2004-08-17T11:57:00.000-04:00

As I'm getting ready to return to college in a couple of weeks, I have to admit I have mixed emotions about leaving for that place in another experiment in temporary freedom. This is one song I've only recently become extremely interested in, as I think that although it may actually be about the band's wanting to return home after touring, it captures that anxious mixture of freedom and apprehension pretty accurately. The sophisiticated introspection and simple honesty make this one of my favorite Brand New songs.

I Will Play My Game Beneath the Spin Light
brand new

The time has come for colds and overcoats.
We're quiet on the ride, we're all just waiting to get home.
Another week away, my greatest fear.
I need the smell of summer, I need its noises in my ears.
If looks could really kill, then my profession would be staring .
Please know we do this cause we care and not for the thrill.
Collect calls to home to tell them that I realize
That everyone who lives will someday die and die alone.

And we won't let you in.
Though we're down and out.
We won't let you in.
You win.

I wrote more postcards than hooks.
I read more maps than books.
Feel like every chance I should have took.
Every minute is a mile.
I've never felt so hollow.
I'm an old abandoned church with broken pews and empty aisles.
My secrets for a buck.
Watch me as I cut myself wide open on this stage.
Yes, I am paid to spill my guts. I won't see home till spring.
Oh, I would kill for the Atlantic,
But I am paid to make girls panic while I sing.

And we won't let you in.
Though we're down and out.
We won't let you in.
And we won't let you in.
We don't want what isn't ours.
We won't let you in.
You win.

And the coastline is quiet.
While we're quietly losing control.
Yes, we're silent but sure we invented the cure
That will wash out my memories of her.
"The harpoon is loaded. The cage is lowered.
The water is red."
Like you.

Something Missing

2004-08-15T13:18:00.000-04:00

In all honesty, I'm not completely sure what this poem is about. I believe it has something to do with one's understanding the spiritual nature of the universe, but when I look at it for too long and read it over too thoroughly, I feel as though something is missing. And in case it hasn't become apparent, I love the winter. Tell me if you have any insight into what it is the poem needs. It would be greatly appreciated. And, better yet, if you can find nothing wrong with it, enjoy it!

I've Returned

God willing I'd say goodbye
To these Sunday morning blues
Church bells clear the air
Calling
To me
To where I hate to be
Closed in and imagined
Behind stark white walls
Quickly growing gray with decay.
I wish snow would turn to sand
And cement to sparkling blue
Reflecting skies stretched high above
Sun burns less than these thoughts do
I'd like to watch the tide retreat
Fleeing from beneath my feet.
And the Winter snow
So cold yet
So light
Will lead me to a path of white.
And those silver skies
Will light these hazy eyes
As I tread above this earth.

Bathroom Stall Philosophy

2004-08-11T12:11:00.000-04:00

For those of you who might actually be reading this... I don't know what to say. I decided to write this while I was in the bathroom. I don't think you need more information than that. I like this one a lot and it's endearing that something of such odd origins would be so near and dear to my heart. I guess that's how it usually is though. Just goes to show you that good things happen when you least expect them.

They Call It Change

I'm mesmerized by the tiles on the wall.
Their glint, their sparkle.
Like some priceless opal.
But no, that's not it.
Not stones, not gold, but cold glassy eyes,
They glare back at me,
Across the small divide
Over the shallow sea which lays stagnant below.
I'm alone, for a moment...
Lonely stall of a temporarily abandoned bathroom.
I wonder if this place gets cold or scared,
Staying up all night, solitary and empty.
I don't even bother to lock the squealing door behind me.
Regardless of my strongest and most dedicated efforts,
The World, if it wanted to,
Like the piercing screech of the hinges,
Would somehow find a way to intrude.
Intrude again and again on one of those random things
People hold so dear and precious...
Privacy. Solitude. Isolation.

It's why I take the time to consider
When I can,
For only a singular moment
(As so often so many do)
What it would mean if Someone or Something
Were to intrude on me and my unlocked Privacy.
My isolated little world.
Would the false balance be thrown?
Would the illusion be shattered?
Would I discover my ghost ship shared?
Yet another apparition that had previously gone unnoticed?
Like so many others...
When it comes down to it
I don't think the answer is worth anything
But in the end, I hope it counts for something.
That one interruption,
That one open door,
That one crack in the fogged glass barrier
Between me and the rest of it...
I pray to God it comes.
I pray to God for change.

Yellow Lines

2004-08-11T01:37:00.000-04:00

I wrote this specifically to submit to last semester's literary magazine with pessimistic hopes (yeah, that makes sense!) of getting myself published. I had nearly zero faith in the random documentation of one of my winter night walks alone along the boring road that circles the campus, but it turned out better than I thought. Surprisingly, it actually ended up in the magazine. I was pretty proud and appreciative of the praise of my friends but skeptical nonetheless. I don't think by any means it to be my best work, but it was by far the easiest to write and most simple in regards to the use of descriptive metaphors and tempo. Who knows? Maybe less is more after all. In any case, all introspective interrogation aside, here it is - enjoy.

Yellow Lines

The road and the line it's drawn
Become my path
A path of uncertainty I tread willingly
All the while street lamps buzzing
All the while steam vents hissing
Unseen beasts roar from sewer depths.

Surrounded by a blanket of cold
I walk the yellow line
For as long as there
Is a line to walk.

Alone with the world
Shadows and silence
I battled the inevitable to keep it
With silence of my own.

A thankfully welcome relief from
Dark times when
Air's become a precious commodity
Taken for granted
It spites us in its vicious impurity
With malevolent intent it moves
To suffocate and strangle.

The cold embrace of a wall-less home
Fills me up and sets my soul to rest
It all keeps me walking
The long silent yellow line.

Waste of Paint

2004-08-08T20:09:00.000-04:00

Yes, this is the second Bright Eyes song I've had on here in two days... but honestly, let me just tell you now - you owe it to yourself to go out and buy the album that both of these songs are from: Lifted or The Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground. I'm not trying to plug it, but it is truly an amazing collection of lyrical and poetic songs. All the songs are beautifully written with real heart and energy. If I had enough patience I would probably put all the lyrics up. I think "I don't know when but a day's gonna come" is also going to have to go up here sooner or later. I wish I had written them but I love them regardless. I'm not afraid to admit that this song in particular is one of the few songs I've ever heard that can get me a little choked up. It's a little long but it's worth the read.

Waste of Paint
bright eyes

I have a friend; he's mostly made of pain.
He wakes up, drives to work, then straight back home again.
He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper.
I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover.
And I tried to tell him that he had a sense of color and composition so magnificent.
And he said, "Thank you, please but your flattery is truly not becoming me.
Your eyes are poor. You are blind. You see, no beauty could have come from me.
I am a waste of breathe, of space, of time."

I knew a woman; she was dignified and true.
Her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied and decided the rest of her life
From that point on would be a lie.
But she was grateful for everything that had happened.
And she was anxious for all that would come next.
But then she wept. What did you expect?
In that big old house with all those cars she kept.
"Oh!" and "such is life," she often said.
With one day leading to the next, you get a little closer to your death,
Which was fine with her. She never got upset and with all the days she may have left,
She would never clean another mess or fold his shirts or look her best.
She was free to waste away alone.

Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove.
And this cop he pulled him off to the side of the road.
And he said, "Officer! Officer! You have the wrong man.
No, no, I'm a student of medicine, the son of a banker. You don't understand!"
The cop said, "No one got hurt, you should be thankful.
And your carelessness, it is something awful. And, no, I can't just let you go.
And though your father's name is known, your decisions now are yours alone.
You are nothing but a stepping stone on a path to debt, to loss, to shame."

The last few months I've been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know, the kind that buys everything in doubles.
They fit together like a puzzle. I love their love and I am thankful
That someone actually receives the prize that was promised,
By all those fair tales that drugged us. And they still do me.
I'm sick, lonely, no laurel tree, just green envy. Will my number come up eventually?
Like Love is some kind of lottery, where you scratch and see what's underneath.
It's 'Sorry', just one cherry, 'Play Again'. Gey lucky.

So, I've been hanging out down by the train's depot.
No, I don't ride. I just sit and watch the people there.
They remind me of wind-up cars in motion. The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
And that their lives are one track, and can't they see how it is pointless?
But just then, my knees give under me. My head feels weak and suddenly,
It's clear to see that it's not them but me, who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry,
Like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve.
And I am never real; it is just a sketch of me. And everything I have made is trite and cheap
And a waste of paint, of tape, of time.

Sometimes I park my car down by the cathedral,
where the floodlights point up at the steeples. Choir practice is filling up with people.
I hear the sound escaping as an echo. Sloping off the ceiling at an angle.
When the voices blend they sound like angels. I hope there's still some room left in the middle.
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them. The range is too high, way up in heaven.
So I hold my tongue, forget the song, tie my shoe and start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on, with my broken heart and my absent God
And I have no faith but it's all I want, to be loved and believe in my soul.
To believe in my soul.

Long Nights With Friends

2004-08-08T11:31:00.000-04:00

There were plenty of nights when disillusionment and bitter resentment controlled conversations between me and my friends at college that continued long after midnight had come and gone. Although not necessarily about me or documenting my own feelings, I tried to capture the mood and mentality of some of those more mentally and emotionally exhausting nights where there was simply nothing better to do than talk.

Midnight Conversations

The "straight-edged"
Leave behind lonely beds
For whispers of midnight conversations
Luck, Love, maybe a lack thereof
Make us forget the things
We thought we wanted
Like my awkward words
They tumble out
Spilling to the ground
Creeping to those around
As much as I'd love to give up
Annoying, Wasting, Loving, Hating
My heart will keep on beating
Tiles, glare, all staring back
Polished and scuffed all the more
Years of being glanced over
God knows I can relate
The sky flares once, burns like fire
Then settles back to it's daunting gray reflection
Burning a little more
Of that place I thought was my soul
Taking a little more
With it, ashes, frail pieces
Of my heart, so simply torn
As much as I'd love to give up
Annoying, Wasting, Loving, Hating
My heart will keep on beating.

Bowl of Oranges

2004-08-07T11:51:00.000-04:00

I'm not all blood, guts, and tears. This one's courtesy of Bright Eyes - look him up and you'll be amazed at how hope and loss can get so mixed up sometimes. What makes him great is how simply understood a portrait painting of life is compared to the elusive beauty of a still life - in this case, a bowl of oranges. Luckily, this is one of the few where hope speaks loud and clear. And I won't lie - I've posted it for someone in particular. She knows who she is.

Bowl of Oranges
bright eyes

The rain, it started tapping on the window near my bed.
There was a loophole in my dreaming, so I got out of it.
And to my surprise my eyes were wide and already open.
Just my nightstand and my dresser where those nightmares had just been.
So I dressed myself and left then, out into the gray streets.
But everything seemed different and completely new to me.
The sky, the trees, houses, buildings, even my own body.
And each person I encountered, I couldn't wait to meet.

I came up to a doctor who appeared in quite poor health.
I said, "I'm terribly sorry but there's nothing I can do for you you can't do for yourself."
He said, "Oh yes, you can. Just hold my hand. I think that that would help."
So I sat with him a while and then I asked him how he felt.
He said, "I think I'm cured. No, in fact, I'm sure of it.
Thank you Stranger, for your therapeutic smile."

So that is how I learned the lesson that everyone's alone.
And your eyes must do some raining if you are ever going to grow.
But when crying don't help and you can't compose yourself
It is best to compose a poem, an honest verse of longing or simple song of hope.
That is why I'm singing...

Baby don't worry cause now I've got your back.
And every time you feel like crying, I'm gonna try and make you laugh.
And if I can't, if it hurts too bad, then we will wait for it to pass
And I will keep you company through those days so long and black.
And we'll just keep on working on the problem we know we'll never solve
Of Love's uneven remainders, our lives are fractions of a whole.
But if the world could remain in a frame like a painting on a wall
Then I think we would see the beauty.
Then we would stand staring in awe at our still lives posed like a bowl of oranges
Like a story told by the fault lines and the soil.

Outside Looking In

2004-08-06T01:47:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I find myself wondering for no good reason about what some would consider the more "important" issues and life. More often than not I'm at a loss. I've never dealt directly with the most monumental and influential force in the history of not only mankind, but all things that live: death. This is what amounts to one of my poor attempts to deal with the overwhelming negative of death and how it influences the lives of those that have been left behind. Furthermore, how does the inevitable event influence the theoretical existence of those that have gone before and passed from the land of the living into that of the dead? In other words, what's it like to be on the outside looking in?

Outside Looking In

Most everyone else asleep
But you're awake alone, without me.
If you dream tonight
Make it a good one.
Dream not alone
But for the both of us.
Forget the nightmare of this place
And the puddles outside
Collecting spirits like you and me.
I wish I could call
Let you know that I'm alright
But I know no signal's going through
The phone is off the hook.
You're pacing again
You wonder "Where the hell are you?"
Don't worry, I'm fine.
You're gonna be fine.
We're all fine here on the outside looking in.
The dead hum of a once-singing motor,
A dead voice now built to suffer
Destroys it all the same
Forgets it all the same.
Stay a bit longer maybe keep me company?
I think I might just feel you
Through the window.
It's cold out here, getting harder to breath.
I hope you know you can count on me
For you alone
I'd be your dream.

Man of Constant Sorrow

2004-08-05T19:44:00.000-04:00

It's not so much that I can relate or that I am a "man of constant sorrow," far from it. I love this song. Beautifully written, simple, and great. That's pretty much it.

Man of Constant Sorrow (traditional)

I am a man of constant sorrow
I've seen trouble all my days.
I bid farewell to old Kentucky,
The place where I was born and raised.

For six long years I've been in trouble,
No pleasures here on earth I found.
For in this world I'm bound to ramble,
I have no friends to help me now.

It's fare thee well my old true lover.
I never expect to see you again
For I'm bound to ride that northern railroad,
Perhaps I'll die upon this train.

You can bury me in some deep valley,
For many years where I may lay.
Then you may learn to love another,
While I am sleeping in my grave.

Maybe your friends think I'm just a stranger
My face, you'll never see no more.
But there is one promise that is given
I'll meet you on God's golden shore.

For A Friend

2004-08-05T18:33:00.000-04:00

This one I wrote at college for a good friend of mine who was going through some pretty tough times with an insanely idiotic girl "friend." The stress of the place and then this particular situation began to weigh heavily on his mind. After talking for a long time about how he felt and how he should and would deal with the situation, I was inspired to write this, more for his benefit than my own. I love this poem, because I know anyone can relate to the raw intensity and frustration. Everyone's been there, but few are willing to step back and understand. I'm still trying to understand. Enjoy.

Fuck It

Say "goodbye" now because you're all out of chances
We'll never speak again, keep hiding behind your empty words
I'd love to scratch out your voice from the soundtrack of my life
You've killed endless melodies for a meaningless way to end
All that's important to me...
Dragging my nails on your broken record
Destroying memories of times - So many times you said you're mine
You want so much to see me die, just leave me in the sun to dry
Light the heads on all your matches
Go ahead, set me ablaze - drop them and burn me alive
Don't forget to stomp out the flicker of my soul...
Sit down, shut up, and don't scream at me you're right
I haven't even lifted a finger in spite of all the anger
Our idiot firefights are just filler to pass the hours
So when we're completely spent and all out of ammo
I'll end the scene with one sharp thrust of a gleaming knife...
And I will win
Maybe then I will be happy
When the audience is gone
They want their money back for all the time they've wasted
Watching your spineless back, friends all behind you now
Pulling out their knives, they all start slashing down
Blood drains on the ground...
Try to forget your fear and move for a moment
They'll know where you are - hiding in the shadows of truths
Wonder if they ever truly knew that worse than a movie
This just doesn't cut it
I'm sick of this script and I'm sick of you
Both always end with a cold, hushed "fuck it."

For Lonely Times Gone Past

2004-08-03T12:28:00.000-04:00

Sometimes the best things are those we experience alone. It's amazing though, how the retelling of those experiences can then influence those who may not have been there but understand the sentiments involved regardless of their absence. This one from the winter just past reminds me of those times, which I hope sometimes are plenty, but there's still nothing better than sharing an experience firsthand with a companion of your choosing. Perhaps a cliched topic, but one that's near and dear to me nonetheless.

Glass-glazed Stars

Out the window
glass-glazed stars
in their frozen constellation.
Street lamps do not point north
and they never lead me home.
The vents below me
spew forth a warm front
that hits me square
to form a cold front of despair.
The storm is overwhelming
frigid breezes creep right through me
as the dreams of the day
are scattered.
I try to catch those
I thought got away.
In the midst
of this early morning winter
I mold my dreams in bright white snow,
fragile balls of love and hope.
When I throw them to the stars
they disintegrate, and plummet
as beauty for all the others.
And as the forgotten snow
blurs me and my path
no points of the compass
or distance on a map
can guide me to my home.

The Most Of It

2004-08-03T01:02:00.000-04:00

A poem I found in last semester's Contemporary Literature class; one of the few things in it that didn't make me want to hurt myself. Sound extreme? You weren't there. Believe me when I call it "torture." I'm sure there's a special place reserved in Hell for good old Professor What'sHerName. I wish I could take credit for it, but credit given where credit is due and all that crap... This one comes courtesy of good old Robert Frost. I love this poem, and you should too.

The Most of It
robert frost

He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.
Some mourning from the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff's talus on the other side,
And then in the far-distant water splashed,
But after time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush - and that was all.

No Truth Like A Bullet

2004-08-02T16:50:00.000-04:00

This isn't the first I've written and there are plenty more to come. However, it is the one for which my site is named.

No Truth Like A Bullet

I wish things stayed the same
Instead of subject to change
Like the innocence of truth
The explosive cloud and plague
That seeps slow throughout my mind
And destroys my tired brain
Beware a violent reaction
A welcome burst of flame

A good morning's the best time to die
There's not much else to say
And although you try and try
Fire decides when it wants to play
So on a bullet my truth came
Swallowed for old times' sake
Boldly marked with the Devil's name
Summons the crimson fire of rage

I shoot them back at you
One right after the other
Rapid fire, hot with hate
Beg to remember my father's face
As I scream to will a change
In their deadly, flawless course
On a bullet the truth came
Step back and admire the careful aim

And I think "A bullet tells no lies"
As another one's let fly
In the chaos the answer's plain
Hits you right between the eyes
Like the Hell you know the Devil made
I know none of us are sane
Then the truth reveals a why
And blows apart my mind

This Is How It Starts

2004-08-02T16:34:00.000-04:00

How should I get started with this? I've heard it called the "new crack" but I wasn't inclined to believe it; random people posting random things in a random manner for other random people to react to? I guess that's how most everything gets started at one point or another: chaos. Regardless, I'm going to begin by using this as a place to post my assorted poetry, essays, philosophy, and other *random* ramblings. Believe me, if you're reading this, I never expected anyone to be even remotely interested. Don't invent some preconceived notion of self-importance; I reserve that for myself, as I am writing this for me. Who knows - maybe it will turn into a regular affair and a general drain on my already wasted time? Haha, well, this is how it begins...