It is interesting to note that my recent inactivity can be easily attributed to, of all things, a good mood. I have said before that depression fuels my desire for excellence, and by extension those who are needlessly happy seem to have very little to contribute; therefore, I find myself mired in joy, unable to find a topic to write on that is cynical enough not to eviscerate my blog's mood. The problem is that joy cannot be attributed to any noun or set of nouns. By its very definition joy is without reason! This perturbs me, for I am unable to explain the emotion that has taken up habitation in my heart. I cannot tell you how to achieve this experience, nor can I detract from it, for any suppositions on my part would be embellishments not worthy of a scientist.

Now I have reached a dilemma that I had not anticipated. It is not possible for me to write of things that I hate, or improvements that should be made upon the world whilst entangled in this snare of unreasonable effervescent excitement. Instead I must subject myself to that arduous task of finding those things in life that are good, those things which fill us with this inexplicable emotion.

Failure is imminent.

Pixelated Poetry

All the time,
We cry and whine,
We're doing fine,
Our own design,
We've been maligned,
We're pushed and thrown against the wall,
Calling someone knowing no-one
You,
Are all my dreams,
Living inside my candy world,
Come taste

Only,
Lonely as can be,
I will,
Drill through what I see,
in
Your eyes,
Cries my empty heart and I won't
Realize,
That I've been torn apart
And I will,
Feel love,
Feel joy,
Bring peace,
Every girl and boy will
Know my story

I tried so hard
I loved so much,
But now I've died,
I'm out of touch,
It used to be
That all you'd see,
Was joy and peace,
Not misery,
You'd choose to be,
What you'd decree,
We were free,
Now you and me,
Our destiny,
Is chosen for us,
No-one adores us,
It's chosen for us,
Made to hate us,
Chosen with us,
Spitting on us,
It's an issue of trust,
But I still must,
Live inside my candy world,
Come taste

What makes you think,
What makes us sink,
Of all the trinkets,
Facts and diskettes,
Corduroy jackets,
Inefficient ketchup packets,
Harmonies and discographies,
All I want is inside of me,
I'll summon what I want to be,
And drown in love,
Drown in peace,
Frown at the dove,
And give it a piece of my mind,
A perhaps a bit of my rind,
Apples and oranges peace is a pear,
I walk a tightrope above a dare,
I'll shed a tear inside my fear,
As I live inside my candy world,
Come taste

Party

Chaotic control,
Mind over death,
Bells never toll,
When left uncaressed.

I'll plant the seed,
Of morose dismay,
Even though others,
Leap into the fray.

I'll hold my head high,
Reach into the sky,
And pull from my ears one more lie.

Sweet, sweet honey,
Sliding down the cherry tree,
Lap it up,
Like a graceful antelope,
Like a stoic.

Honey turns to ash in your mouth,
Moths fly forth to live amongst the green,
But they cannot survive,
Why the birds and the bones,
Throw arrows and stones,
Is beyond my ability to surmise.

Dirty hallways laced with greed,
Faint light little placates the filth,
Necessity is what drives me,
For I hunger.

Still my frumpy
Clothing bounces lightly off my chest
Caressed by shades of white,
And grey.

=/=

I'm so sick of chauvinism, or just sexism in general. Judgments based on appearances aren't always inaccurate, but the fact is that so many people allow their assessments of people to be biased by things that those individuals don't even have control over. I know that this is just another redundant rant, but for some reason I feel the need to get this out in the open.

There is something I hate more than chauvinism, and that is the reaction that some individuals have deemed necessary; in order to retaliate against discrimination, they either anti-discriminate or discriminate against those who are discriminating against them. The "eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth" philosophy is dead. Anyone who believes otherwise is a fool in the highest degree.

Marxism doesn't work! Violence, hatred, and discrimination will only yield more of the same. It is up to those of us blessed with intellectual initiative to reciprocate by sharing, or at least attempting to share this knowledge. I'm not an idiot, I know what people are like. The voice of reason has never been popular, and logic's effect wanes daily. However, simply because something is difficult does not mean it should not be attempted. Failure is not weakness, but lacking the drive to even attempt the impossible indicates that you are guilty of the worst sin of all: apathy.

Even as I say this I can feel my conscience pressing down on me, for this is the sin that most frequently haunts my footsteps . . .

The Words

A tune not put to words,
For any sorry soul,
For feeble words cannot express what lies inside me
A joy,
A story yet untold.
Feeling, warming, breaking, breaching,
Love, joy, warmth, before me beseeching.
I need only grasp forth,
I dare not wait,
Lest it be too late,
I capture my fate
And soar
I live for so much more
You'd hardly believe that this much is true,
But if it were not
I'd never speak with you,
I'd never have known
What it is to have flown,
Fly,
Flying

Overthought

So tired,
Of living, of life.
The pain cuts through me like a rusty knife.

Feel pulled apart like the strands of a rope,
Individually becoming,
Nothing but string.

And I realize that,
My train of thought,
While passing through the valley,
Was overcome,
Was overthought,
I realize now my folly.

The passenger car,
Cannot go this far,

While being overloaded,
Overmind,
Overtime,
Overthought . . .

Manuscript

Chapter 1: Clouds of Peace

Mammalian candy cruisers,
Propelled by invisible communism.

A layer cake of philosophies,
Contradictions set to pastel blue.

Strong willed serfs raise their branches high,
Buffeted by the winds of leadership,
An unnecessary evil.

High-winged middle classes,
Lofty indeed, that they must rest amongst the serfs,
Nestled among them they encourage leadership.
Among the trees?
The fools.

Chapter 2: Insurrection

Iron cages
Built by sages,
While the mob rages
At prison benches
Served by,
Servant wenches.

Chapter 3: Mountains of Calamity

Surprise!
Monstrous gender roles consummated,
With communism,
Overtake the mind's canvas,
Painting a new picture,
In the lines.

Histrionics

Edit the song!
Edit the script!
Undo the wrong,
Undo the damage done,
To my heart
That which was ripped and torn
And flutters in the wind
Like a fading flag
On the streets of a forgotten city
Where the wind blows and howls
Like an old man
Recycling old jokes
And chatting with friends
Vapors in the wind . . .

Here we are, suspended together
Literally
I hold your body in mine, protecting you
Loving you
There is no first move, there is no advance
We move as one
I kiss you, gently
I move across your face with mine
Gently
Oh, so gently
My face moves across yours
I'm not even thinking
Simply doing
Loving
Gently
We stop, but there is no screeching halt
Our love continues
Even as we drop
Maneuver
To the ground
I can't let go of you
I can't
I've always been capable,
Always able,
Until now
I am at the mercy of my own love for you
And love is unmerciful
Still I hold you, not by the hand like some mere facade of love
But around the waist
Like conjoined twins,
Like the cores of two peaches
Unlikely, but oh
So
True

Of The Closure And Opening Of Things That Would Blind Me

Empty lashes,
Closed sashes,
Ladies walk 'neath feathered hat shops
Ducking snowflakes, laughing delicately
Do they even know,
That they're killing me?

Silent lashes
Loose sashes,
You can feel my heartbeat
You can hear my mouth breathe
You love me?
I hope . . .

Foolish lashes,
Mangled sashes,
My hole self feels more complete
Now that I can destroy defeat
Now that I can create pain
To turn back the rain

Open lashes,
Open sashes,
Dust to dust
Ashes to ashes . . .

MOON PEOPLE

What of the man
Whose hands never clasped
Whose cold dead fingers
Did fondle the earth
And consider his might
And what he was worth
What of the times
Spent longing for more
When all that could come
Is an open door
And through the door
Must your heart belong
In order to join
The ecstatic throng
So sing with me dear
Sing with me lad
That we might dance and be glad
For the MOON PEOPLE COMETH

A Diffident Love Letter

Dear Winter,

Being with you is at the same time draining and painful. I wish I could tell you all of what I feel but I know that you don't care. You never have, and that's part of why I'm leaving. I'll probably see you again, it's really somewhat unavoidable, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. The problem is, I know that as soon as I'm gone I'll start thinking about you. You really are my weakness, you know that? Truly your love is tainted . . . painful. I do love you; you know that, right? Of course you do. What is love but an obsession, and if my thoughts cannot cease their constant dwelling on you then what is my obsession but love? Indeed, the idea of you is more than I can bear. You are loneliness, you are solitude, you are the idle dismissal of those things and people that do not interest you.

You are intoxicating.

You are cold.

You are pain.

Sincerely,
- Augustus

Clean For Seventeen Years

The idea has been proposed to me that love is an addiction. The argument is that love, like any other drug, is not desired so strongly until it is encountered . . . experienced. Before that it seems that we don't know what we're missing out on. It has been said that we cannot live without it, that the craving is innate and insatiable. We are always hungry for more . . .

Perhaps it is important to first indicate what constitutes an addiction. An addiction creates physical or psychological dependence. An addiction is never satisfied, there is always room for more. An addiction is destructive, breaking us down, eating away at who we are, inside and out. An addiction is compulsive and may have an illusory appearance to the addicted. Finally, in most cases, an addiction can be overcome.

Love. What is it? Too broad a topic to cover so briefly, love is not something to be subjected to analysis. Still, I must try, for my own sake, to disprove the opinion so casually thrust under my nose. Thus I begin by stating that love is not requisite for life. I do believe that love is essential for life in any positive sense, but life itself is not love-based in any logical sense. I feel almost blasphemous saying this, but I am inclined to appeal to the logical individual who may or may not believe in the existence of love as I know it.

I do believe that I can immediately dismiss the thought that love is not desired so strongly as when it is first encountered. Perhaps my impromptu debating partner was considering also the sexual implications of love, but I would dismiss these immediately as irrelevant to the context of true love. Certainly sexual behavior is made more prominent when such behavior is encouraged or rewarded, but love is in and of itself not instigated by any actions that lie outside an individual's mind. If it were so, then love it would not be.

That said, love fills us up, as it were, to overflowing. A person cannot be loved too much, but this does not mean that they are never satisfied. Truly loving someone or truly desiring that sort of love is not based on any requisite amount of love. Love cannot be weighed by such trivial human measurements or other jargon. To say that is to trivialize what love truly is.

Another facet of this argument is the destructive nature of an addiction. I have no doubt that there are many who would clamor in vain that love has ruined their lives, destroyed friendships, exhausted their opportunities, and addled their brains. They are wrong. It is not love, but the abuse of relationships that causes such calamity, for love is by nature perfect, and not subject to moral shortcomings.

There are still other parts of this argument I have not addressed. Is love a compulsion? Most certainly, innate is our need to strive for love and esteem from others. Are those who love the subject of deceit, with no real accuracy in their perception of the world? Who is to say that they are inaccurate at all? To whom does the world report? Who will challenge the reality of the universe and say "this is so"? Love is, in my humble opinion, not the ignorance of faults, but the ignoring of those faults. Therefore, it follows that love does not require accurate perception of the world in order to exist, but that does not mean it clouds the judgments of those who were already cynical.

The final aspect of addiction is the overcoming of said addiction. The reason I added in this unusual clause is to use a sort of converse logic. If an addiction does not exist, it cannot be overcome, therefore: if an addiction cannot be overcome, then it is not an addiction - it is a need. Needs need to be filled. Love . . . is it a need?

Who am I to say?

Inescapability

It is my fate to be misunderstood,
To be bound to the leg of my desk,
For none can know what I rue,
Except you.

Tall and pale in the night of horrors,
Pull back my sleeves and show my scars,
My tales of sobbing are true,
Get a clue, sweetheart.

There's very little definition in my face,
For all the good I try to do,
I'd run away in disgrace,
But I'm getting my paycheck on Friday,
And I don't want to be late.

My depression is like the drone,
Of bagpipes,
In my life,
Life goes up and down,
But always that drone,
Always alone,
With my frown.

Where are they all? I can't find them, no matter how far I am driven, even if I search where I am told. They seem to be gone. I'm helpless, lonely. Sure some have offered to help, but what help is it if I am still lost?

Now I am secure in my actions, in a place surrounded by people, in the company of one of my closest friends. We're playing video games, but I can't understand how she knows all this. It's crazy, this is something that I'm very knowledgeable about, she can't take that away from me! Still . . . it's strangely comforting. I feel safe in her knowledge, in my own ignorance. My skill grows as I realize this, although we cannot defeat each other. I cannot really say that I know for certain that was our initial intention anyway.

Now I am trapped. The video game, her, and myself have all meshed together into a conglomerate of confusion, exercising its entrapment on me. But I can come and go as I please! Why then do I feel so trapped? Perhaps I have allowed my own entrapment . . . perhaps she will rescue me. My feelings have taken control of me and it is as if I am careening down a highway on a unicycle, unsure even of how to juggle.

There are others, the ones who have captured me and held me prisoner. They are . . . hard to explain. They are worms; they are disgust; they are a vile, gritty, goo, steaming with fell evil and foul contempt. They are so frightening. They could consume me if they wanted, but instead they choose to keep me bound. Am I a lure, am I bait for her? Who can truly say? Still . . . their presence is everywhere, like a film of grease over the walls, and the doorknob, and my hands.

Will I ever be free?

Communist Chords

We think we know,
Where to go,
Though we've cried,
There's nothing to hide.

Nowhere to run,
No-one to fear,
(When) we lie beside,
The ones we hold dear.

We don't know,
Where to go,
When we cry,
There's nowhere to fly.

(Give) in to our demands,
(These) seeds are yours to plant,
Fulfill all our plans,
Because we can't.

We're out of luck,
Waist deep in muck,
Your skin not mine,
You could have declined

Stepping stones will reach,
The shore someday,
You know we didn't teach, you,
To be that way.

How difficult it is for a woman or a man to expose themselves, where not even the very core of their being goes unscathed. Are we truly so sensitive to the light, or is it the one who carries it? Woe, woe unto those who shine the light in the dark places, for their reward is punishment. Whoever carries the light is decided to be evil, though the light make clear many things, both good and evil.

How difficult it is for a woman or a man to embrace the light when it comes, to let it shine and pour into the depths of their soul to wring out the bad and scorch the evil with its burning intentions. Is it not also hard for the good to be exposed? For what woman, what man can live with her or his good on a pedestal. Who among them will not build that pedestal of unholy pride, of unrighteous fear of rejection, of hatred of others? No, it is better for the good to be buried beneath the light, that no-one may see any but evil in those with pure hearts. Better to be thought evil than for evil to live in your heart.

How difficult it is for a woman or a man to learn to love the light, even when it is hidden, for when it is hidden we forget it is there and return to our evil ways. When we cannot see the way we must stay the course, for it has already been laid out for us. If we turn right or left to seek the light, will we not fall? Likewise, if we pursue the course without the light's direction, are we not doomed to failure? Life without the light is impossible, nor is direction prudent whilst blind.

Silent Raven

"Er, hello?"

"Yes, hello."

"I'd like to place an order."

The receiver makes a strange scratching noise, like a cat's claws pulling at the carpet. I want to pull away but the phone seems to be magnetically attached to my head. The shuffling on the other end stops and a clear male voice rings into my ear.

"Domai's Pizza, how may I help you?"

"Sal, is that you?"

"To whom am I speaking?"

"The raven quotes no more, though she tries in vain, her voice is heard no more, her cawing silenced."

More shuffling, this is beginning to get annoying. If I hadn't already been so nervous I might have started sweating, as it is my palms are already a sensitive taffy. It all seemed so ridiculous, in another situation I might have laughed. Or cried. Either way it would all be over soon. Brown and his wife are coming over for dinner later, maybe we'll be able to shoot some pool when we're done. Janice . . . she is such a nice woman.

"Domai's pizza, we are preparing your order. Under what name shall we put the reservation?"

"Thomas, my name is Thomas."

I give him my address and feel the back of my pocket for my wallet. I've done it so many times that the familiar bulge gives me some small comfort. I wipe my hands on my finely pleated pants, the sticky sweat pulling slightly at the fabric and leaving smudges on my clothes. A noisy clacking rises from my newly-shined shoes as I tap my foot on the noxious flooring, the grout rotting between the dirty tiles.

"Your order will be ready in fifteen minutes, please be ready to pay when our representative arrives."

"Thank you."

I hang up, my limbs wooden and cold. I stumble out of the bathroom and fall onto my bed, drinking in the familiar smells of stale air-conditioning, incense and dope. It's like I could just lie here forever, let the world move on without me. No, I must continue, I've committed already. Committed to this. I won't fall, I won't fail. Slowly, slowly as if dreaming, slowly as a man in a deep sleep I rise and move to the neatly folded pristinely-white shirt lying on the immaculately clean table. My reflexes are numbed, sluggish, and I do not even notice when I kick past a pile of dirty socks, one of which lands on a piece of pizza so old it has achieved sentience. My focus is on the buttons. There are so many of them. So many buttons.

I'm at my door, but I don't know how I got here. I never know, so I guess it really isn't important. I go to ring the doorbell, but remember the key in my pocket. Silly me. My hand is steady and I feel some part of me hope that the key won't fit. It slides in with a disconcerting click, the lock offering no resistance. Inside the house is just as it always has been, vast and forbidding. Really, I can't even remember what it cost for that ridiculous chandelier, but it must have been expensive. Are those inlays made of diamond? Still, I don't care about that. That's his life, and I don't know Him anymore.

He'll be dead soon anyway.

Oh, there's the doorbell!

The echoes of the bell are still bouncing around inside my head, harmonizing with those voices, those angelic voices. Deep down inside I know it's too late to go back. I am like a celestial body, a meteor doomed to burn up in the atmosphere; I cannot resist the gravitational pull of the door handle. There he is.

"Nice tuxedo."

"Mister Thomas?"

"Come on in."

An open palm waves him in, and I am helpless to stop it. He glances around furtively, and gives me a suspicious glance.

"Where is your . . . client?"

"Open your eyes, he's here."

Eyebrows narrowed, Tuxedo retrieves a small black object from his coat pocket and steps quietly through the long wooden hallway into the marble-floored kitchen. I can track his progress by the clacking of his very fine shoes. It takes him but a few moments to examine the first floor of my mansion. His mansion. Tuxedo returns, and he looks perplexed. I want to put his mind at ease, but my impatience is overwhelming.

"Can't you see Him you fool? He's right here!"

Inside I am writhing, gnawing at myself. He wants to leave, I can feel it. He wants to be set free. He can have my body but He will never have my mind! Quickly I rip open my shirt and bare my chest at Tuxedo. I know I am sweating now, even in the coolness of the central air. Tuxedo is gaping at me, staring at my naked upper body. His hands are trembling.

"Finish it!"

He starts to lift his pistol, the agony of the motion blatantly apparent. I would help him, but I am living in my own agony of existence now. He's figured it out. Maybe He knew all along. Maybe He just drew me along to show me how futile resistance really was. Either way, He would be dead soon, I had made sure of this.

Tuxedo is still lifting his pistol, it's at chest level now, and aimed directly at me. I close my eyes and wait for bliss to overtake me. There's a soft snapping noise, and I smell gunpowder. Has he shot? My eyes are open now, pleased with what they see. I am not so pleased. Tuxedo lies on the floor, blood pooling from his head. His eyes are open, the pupils entirely dilated. I want to cry, to scream in frustration, but He won't let me. He starts laughing, and I can hear the laughter. He can hear the laughter.

I have failed.

Spiral surface stripped of sensation,
Clean white exterior inside and out,
Life swirls about all creation,
A depressing ulterior route.

Ratty chunks of foolishness,
Carbon-sodium wrought to amalgam,
We fail all sorts of tests,
It's because of the rum.

Throw out all my change,
I can't even afford the token,
I'll try to be happy, if strange,
But my hedonic treadmill is broken.

Bias is inherent evil. I cannot escape it, though it does not clutch or claw at me, for it already has me fully in its grasp. Not with the infinity of time and the penultimate power of reasoning can bias be overcome, for you are born with it, and you will bear it as you have borne life's other burdens; you will bear it in submission. There is no choice.

There is a choice. You can live with your bias, feed it, and find one day that it has outgrown the carriage and demands a castle. You can moan and gripe about your fate until it swallows you whole. Or.

You may choose to fight it. Feed it only the barest of scraps, deny it the rights that any living thing deserves. Flog it daily until it vomits, for within this heartlessness lies your freedom. It will never die, it will still grow larger and larger until you find your perspective is not large enough to contain the mammoth within. But.

It will never die. It is important, no, imperative that you know this. Your bias will cling to you until the day you perish from this earth. All you can hope to do is delay its coming. Prevent the apocalypse until it is irreversibly upon you. Then you may embrace it in blissful hope, the hope that in the other world you will meet someone worth knowing.

Sans the bias.

Dissonant green curves amidst the black,
Sharp definitions pixels reach through,
Grasping at dust in the wind, on the track,
But fingers are no instrument to prevent flight.

When I desire to write I find myself assaulted by incoherent phrases, jumbled words and ideas that prevent me from being cohesive in the slightest. Often conciseness overwhelms me, and I attempt to truncate my ideas, rather than fabricate connections between them. What is the source of this dystopia of my mind? Is it a lack of artistic input? Perhaps the overwhelming presence of others prevents me from operating at my full capacity. The holidays are a terrible time, not because they bring joy, or because they bring love, but because they bring people.

People are not the bane of my existence, but there are times when I wish these vociferous strangers would remove themselves from my presence. Even the quiet dead can disturb the practices of the living.

You may interpret these statements as callous or hard-hearted, but the truth is there is a contrast to my rankling social opinions. The deep desire to love those who are close to me is overpowering, like fine incense in an enclosed space. I cannot hate people, for people and I have all the world in common. We live and die together; we are equals. I am no better than my brother, no matter the crimes he has committed, for we are one in this world.

There is a difference, strongly manifested but rarely discussed, between individuals and social groups. Individuals are tolerable, even if they come from the most unkind, unfair, and unpleasant stock. A social group is an abhorrence, even if a delightful group of people. A social group is, after all, comprised of individuals; but individuals subjected to group-thinking are the worst of all. Those individuals carry that group with them wherever they go, effectively sterilizing their intellect, discussion, and behavior. They are sheep, they are lemmings, they are evil incarnate.

Pain starts on the inside,
Gnawing away at concentration,
Still concentrated in my side,
Disturbing animations,
Like television sets play,
My mind is riddled with holes,
Riddle with the soft clay,
Even out my soul,
With drugs.

Rain is a masseuse,
Water pelting body and soul,
Great chiropractor.

The default scientific viewpoint is not skepticism, it is curiosity. Suspension of one's disbelief is imperative when mentally exploring the world of the unknown and the supernatural. When one deals in theories, it pays to be constantly questioning, but not skeptical. Never skeptical.

Skepticism breeds only dissatisfaction. A skeptic is never satisfied, even at the most basic level; for being skeptical is just another bias. Instead of pessimists, who believe that all the world is headed to ruin, or optimists, who believe that all things will yield good, a skeptic believes that all things are untrue until proven otherwise.

I cannot prove that skepticism is an irrational choice of world views, which is why the skeptic will never agree with my conclusion. I can connive and convince you to my cause, but it would not be proof. Because of this, no skeptic can ever truly be converted; else they were never a skeptic to begin with.

Why do I even separate skepticism and curiosity to begin with? Should not the two be amalgam, like flesh and water, fire and stone? Indeed, what is curious skepticism if not cynicism with a prenatal bias? Cynicism is the answer to skepticism, but it requires objectivity to reach; objectivity which the skeptics lack, for who can prove that objectivity is ultimate to someone who does not desire it?

Discover discover, the 10th of December,
Mystery and danger abound,
I find few faults,
In this day we have wrought,
For perfection is what we've begot.

- C for Cliche

Somebody scream,
I feel it in my knees,
There's trouble tonight,
They've caught the disease,

Apathy through,
Life on the farm,
All conglomerated,
Elusive charm,

Haiku is frail,
And prose is robust,
But words are like ash,
They turn to dust,

Ideas will remain,
Recycled, rewritten, rethought,
The same old antagonist,
With the same old plot,

There is nothing new under the sun.

My death is easily accountable for . . .

I have passed beyond the void, beyond the white light . . .

There is a parlor there of unknown origin, in which a pompous man in a white suit asks me my name . . .

But I never know what to tell him.

Infection has evolved with strangely ambivalent connotations. The very word infection is indicative of a powerful catalyst that has wrought change in something else, and yet still we subscribe to that foolish notion of the cliche. Certainly there is a place for hesitancy when it comes to the re-iterating of an old philosophy, but why is infectiousness so taboo? Perhaps we miss the point of an infection; infections aren't about hatred or antagonism, they are about change and survival.

Infections are contagious as well. The real danger lies in this ability to spread quickly, to maneuver from psyche to psyche spreading courage, fear, lies, hope, and malcontent. There is but one cure for this contagion. Were it possible I would have delayed this unveiling of my perception of infection so as to shield you all from my inevitable conclusion: the cure is an objective mindset. Influence is held over you by others undeserving of their power, but you can limit that influence until it has been marginalized by your own independence.

Now that we know we can control an infection with the antibody of our conscious mind, we can also take a step back and observe the true meaning of infective behaviors. Remember, the key to preventing your own infection is held in the mind, not in the actions that you take. Actions may always be misconstrued, twisted, and maligned, but internalizing your thoughts will not fail.

Do not be upset if someone says negatively that you dug your own grave while you were still healthy enough to do it yourself. After all, they will die grave-less.

Three days without word,
Haven't you heard?
The man has gone silent in awe,
For the fools have all died,
And his friends have found pride,
And the shock is bleeding and raw.

There they are, those blackhearted ghouls. They're still circling, high above me, while I drown. Just a bloated mass of fishy flesh, they squirm and wiggle their way through the now-turbid water, searching for me. I must be nothing, an insignificant speck in comparison, for they cannot see me. We are still conversing, a jaunty, but simultaneously deadly conversation. One verbal mis-step and Davey Jones will have to share his already-cramped apartment with yet another unwelcome visitor. I'm swimming towards the surface now, careful to aim my body so that I can slip past these massive fishes, these carnivores of the mind. I come dangerously close to one, so close that I can see those over-sized scales, those massive teeth, those big, blubbery, foolish lips. Still, he is distracted by my conversation, and I escape to the surface, madly scrambling onto the feeble land, hoping they will not see my exit. Others around me look down and say "my those are some big fish."

"You have no idea."

May my life create one winking flame,
To which my values and my morals be attached,
So that when I am nought but a name,
Some meaning to that name may be mismatched.

May my soul be quintessential truth,
Let no-one cloud my reason or my thought,
When reflecting on my history uncouth,
My philosophy will reflect what it ought.

May my rewards be all they're meant to be,
Let others see the gold rainbowing down,
And selfish desires no longer roam free,
While kingliness is knighted with a crown.

Too much to hope will henceforth be realized,
So I shall retire as my world is trivialized.

Expression through the written word is difficult today,
Why I can sing but cannot write my thoughts I cannot say,
Despite this all I will attempt some layman's easy prose,
Although it may feel awkward, like an unkempt, greasy rose.

First I feel strong hatred, burning lustfully inside,
My soul finds fault with competition, but it can't decide,
Do I stay within the circle, pompous as can be,
Of friends and foes, and trouble those, who turn and spit on me.

I've always loved a challenge, like our friendship (that's for sure),
But shouldn't friends tie up loose ends, instead of knotting more?
And should we not cease and desist, when granted easy truce,
Instead of gnawing in our bellies, twixt farce, facade, and ruse?

"But friend!" you cry, "Why fly when I am confident in soaring?"
"And other friends, who tie up ends, are quite often boring,"
So I sigh and kneel again, and feel the tongue-lash fall,
And wonder, through the pain, if I returned my mother's call.

Other things have come to mind, so I'll continue my digression,
On efficient social puppets 'midst political recession,
Of why a man is deified, enthroned by godly dress,
While crowds will follow his commands, morals all a-mess.

It rarely seems that I can dream of the logical thing to do,
And wake to find I'm far behind, for others think it too,
And I would rejoice, and raise my voice, if all the world would sing,
Of love and peace, of elbow grease, of avoiding lewd flings.

I find it hard to find a friend so open as to say,
That they don't mind that I can find a more efficient way,
If they gave to me all the room to be what I was meant to,
That friend would be the avatar of who I would relent to.

Unfortunately, as you can see, I've stopped being concise
So I'll conclude, just don't be rude, I don't write verses twice,
When you arise and don your clothes, ascending God's own stairway,
Be sure you don't neglect all those who chose to act the fair way.

This is a strange euphoria,
That would turn a man to butter,
That transforms a woman from an angel,
To something greater.

How is it then that I,
Feel this thing many a time,
Including with those who I despise,
I don't realize?

It was just a stab.

Right.

Just a knife between the ribs.

Just a series of serrated cutlery slowly drawn through my body, rending flesh from flesh in a torrent of blood and gory horror.

Just a stab.

Only a little knick in the heart, the bleeding can be staunched.

Just apply pressure.

Even the tiniest blood clot can be lethal, even the deadliest poison can be cured, and even the sweetest voice can destroy a man.

Oh that candy-coated, sugar-plum'd voice. I have gravitated to it, like a child to the tall glass jar of licorice, though he can only have one taste.

And I can't afford the dime.

There are two main instigators of change, one stemming from overanalysis, one manifested by an inability to fully grasp the gestalt of something. The first is specialization - when an individual cannot handle the entirety of a topic, he or she will then transfer all their resources and knowledge into one specific aspect of that topic. When this specialization occurs, questions that are not considered by the generalists will be raised and answered by the specialist. It's a classic quality over quantity scenario.

The other is when an individual becomes too familiar with his or her analysis of a topic. This results in fetishism, or forced change. As this person is already wholly cognizant of his or her metaphorical landscape, they change it. Usually this change is forceful and initially quite awkward. It takes many experiments that one's mind must toy with, one by one, before a conclusion can be reached, and only then is growth to be had.

That elusive thread that is wound about these two shortcuts to change is specialization through choice, not by force. When mankind can handle both the macro and the micro, the gestalt and the details, the massive and the minute, then can mankind achieve a more perfect intellectual stance.

Water poured down over his head, hands, and feet. It filled his lungs with joy, his mind with clarity. He threw back his head, the water sealing him in the cavern. His coffin. There would be no escape for him. He would not need escape, simply rest. Still, how can he rest without relieving himself of life.

Run my good friend, run until your lungs burst, until your head explodes, until your legs disintegrate. All that waits for you in the cave is life. Forever.

What greater curse?

Loneliness is my strength.

Not really, it seems to me that I am simply being strong within my loneliness. Who knows why - I sure don't. Here is a poem with which to whittle away the hours . . .


Carved into stone are the faces of the dead,

Molds cast in iron with casts set in lead,

Noses and lips, teeth of cobblestone,

Ears that are loud, and eyes that have grown,

Wider when I have expressed my desire,

To purchase your body in water and fire,

To flee from the land of emotional mire,

Where I can't even feel my own ire.

I'm a diehard, hardcore, crazy-go-lucky, rip your arms off kinda guy.

So it's no wonder I'm obnoxious.

Mmm, I do believe I smell overcooked intellectualism.

Delicious.

Culminating into masses
A thousand crowded sickly classes,
All for one until one falls,
Always then do leaders crawl

Feed righteous fear and insurrection
Tartly brushed by sweet affection,
Taste the love inside their hate,
It satisfies but does not sate,
Its moans and cries do not abate,
Not by choice, for it was fate.

Read inside the empty fear,
Always putrid are my tears

Cry alone or with your love,
You're still crying.

I'll tell you that I'm just tired - but I'm not.

I'm really just fed up with all the trash that I've been exposed to. Every evening it's like sorting through all the garbage I've picked up throughout the day, attempting to pick out what I intend to keep. Every morning I suffer from the same dilemma: do I keep an open mind and an objective spirit, or do I spend my time blocking out the foolishness that surrounds me? In the end all I have is hope.

Poetry.

Music.

Not people though . . . definitely not people . . .

Quicksand!

Cluttered foray into the mind,
Slicing away at the vines of design,
Shifting our weight on the diluted sand,
The one bit of safety is your enemy's hand.

Clasped to his digits like so many suckers,
You sip his canteen as your parched lips pucker,
Imbibe that sweet juice of which angels have told,
Of your destruction who could have foretold?

Ragnarokian bliss will embrace you soon,
As the sun gives way in imminent swoon,
And Pan orchestrates but one last tune,
A song to remind us of the old buffoon.

His mind is resigned,
Entangled with twine,
Extracted so fine,
From frost-cut pine.

For simplicity's sake I'll try not to digress,
And stick to the madman wearing a dress,
He smokes on his pipe, he tries on a wig,
The dress is too small and the pipe is too big.

If only there were an excellent opiate,
That he could be endowed before he were to suffocate,
Then in word and in deed,
He would fall to his knees,
And confess all his love and his hate.

There are times when I am overcome with the overwhelming desire to be overshadowed. I feel this sudden intense need for someone close by me for me to rely on in a physical way. Under normal circumstances I am aloof and reserved, and this is my natural state. I am under no illusions about how I normally am, nor do I wish to change that. It is not despite this but because of it that I am so perturbed by these strange mood swings that do so afflict me. It is a strange desire indeed, that which demands a roaring fire, a cup of tea, and someone to throw my arm around as we gaze across the soft carpet into the laughing flames. Perhaps it is a disillusionment - perhaps my cynical nature is the gauze in which I wrap my inner child. I am disinclined to hold with this argument.

Now that I think about it, when was the last time I felt or gave physical affection any stronger than a handshake? It's downright boggling - the few times that I have been the receiver of those awkward hugs given by higgly-giggly extroverts with their easy sociality and their innate need to burst the space bubbles set up around those of us who tend towards the other extreme I have not allowed myself to feel that closeness. If anything I create more internal social tension at that precise moment simply to help distance myself from the person who has cumbersomely entangled me with their bawdy appendages. This may be why I tend to hold such a low regard for these people - they have forced me to distance them emotionally because they refused to be distanced physically.

This is not to say I do not appreciate or desire physical affection. I enjoy a casual hug between close friends, and, although it may seem hilarious to you, I even find myself allowing a friend to walk very close to me - five or six inches at least. The reason it is so distressing for me to be shown this affection by new relations is just that - they are indeed new relations. I feel attacked and bombarded when these zealous socialites force themselves on me. Indeed, it feels akin to emotional rape.

Do I connect palpable attachment too much to emotional security? Certainly not, indeed I would asseverate that my community as a whole is in denial about the issue of casual affection. And yes, it is an issue. It is an issue that two people who love one another can be tortured simply being in the other's presence, while two others can hate themselves, and compensate with affection from their opponent. Self control I believe is key, but other factors may come into play.

In the end I can only be full of joy that I have friends who believe these things as well, and hope that I will gain more like them.

Fanciful delights,
Popsicles in moonlit nights,
Icebergs floating down the stream,
Of soda pop and gasoline,
And here I stand to stop the tide,
Of things that are good,
And things that are bad,
Things that are trash,
That destroy all your hopes,
Your dreams catalyzed,
By poison-tipped knives.

I love you, now go.

Before you hurt yourself.

Don't Sit On The Table!

Dotted by the tables,
Of society and fame,
Baubles not yet mangled,
By the riches not yet claimed.

Set the table's places,
Forks and spoons and butter knives,
Wipe the surface clean of poison,
So as not to take their lives.

Oh what pure innocence,
Does build its frail supports,
A web of estranged fragments,
Shows what presidents purport.

Peace is a fabled beast,
An ogre, nymph, or fairy,
But in this case it is at least,
An iridescent cherry.

Aqua Vitae

Aqua is Vitae

Incredible salve of healing water. A slow balm, covering and consuming the bodies of the living and of the dead. Working its magic. A quintessential quaff, in what way is the dove above the rest of us? All must come to ground and partake in the drink we take for granted.

Life runs through our veins, a vertical vehicle impairing our deathliness. Liquid serenity, worth naught but a penny, it cleanses us. Makes us full. Filled.

Delicious.

How and why do we wake up from sleeping? What is our intention? Why are we so foolish? If we slip into the sultry stasis of sleep to produce and preserve our energies, why are we so quick to dismiss it as unnecessary? Even the gods of old mythos slept, recovering from the strain of maintaining the human world. Now it is in our own power to change the world, and yet we do not take full advantage of our rest. Work only creates more work, that is the way of things. Then again, relaxation promotes relaxation. It is a vicious cycle of laziness and zeal, and we would be wise to stay away from those things. Truly the only way to promote order is to behave in a balanced manner, correctly measuring the time spent in leisure and in busyness.

I love her.
Yes, there, I said it.

It's so hard for me sometimes. To admit it that is. That I love her.

Especially to her.

Some guys can just throw that phrase around like an empty beer can. Not me.

I'm not like that.

Not that I think I'm better than them. Just different. Different in a good way. Different like that book you've been reading lately, the one with the great protagonist. Different like root beer and a root beer float.

Some girls'll take it like that too. The phrase I mean. They eat that stuff up. I guess they thrive on insincerity. I dunno, seems kinda' strange to me. But then, I've always had trouble saying it.

I really don't know what's changed. I've always been this way I guess. Never could make up my mind, really couldn't make concrete decisions. Just a butterfly on the wind, buttering my way through flying. Or trying. And crying.

Whoops, got a little sidetracked there. So yea. I love her, I really do.

Now the next step: telling her.

"I love you."

Inevitably the best way to die is quickly.

Invariably the worst way to die is alone.

Inconceivably most people don't want to die.

Involuntarily people do.

It is my input that an immeasurable amount of insipid morons want institutionalized murder for inmates.

Intangible is my fear,
Incorrigible is my hate,
Inside are my tears,
Imprisoned behind the gate.

Is your mother there dear?
There's a call on line one for her.

"Hello, mom?"

"This isn't your mother dear."

"Mom, are you there?"

"This is the doctor."

"Hello? You're breaking up."

"I'm afraid there's been a terrible accident . . ."

On and on the water spills,
Judgment, fury, from a pail,
On and on it showers down,
Raining grief upon the crown,

Raining grief upon the crown . . .

What is your trouble?
To whom do I confess?
Does your heart bubble,
With acidic stress?

Does it flow like a melody sweet,
Like friends you meet,
Like friends you greet,
Like friends who's heads will roll at your feet,
Like friends you meet,
Like friends you greet.

Unwashed hands are your greatest sin,
An adulterous mouth I can live with,
If only for the barest sip,
Before I drown,
Before I care,
I pray the Lord,
My soul to spare.

Drown and swim, swim and drown,
Turn that grin into a frown,
Swim and drown, drown and swim,
Slowly heaven's light glows dim,
When I drown,
And when I swim.

I had a post all typed up about how I write better when I'm depressed, but it was terrible.

How ironic.

Eyes are watching you right now.

Lips are tasting you while the alien tongue cements you in place.

You cannot run, you cannot hide.

I can see your house from here.

And it smells great.

A triad is a symphony,
A duet is a harmony,
But a solo is all you can be,
When you live without me.

Don't forget . . .

Don't ever forget . . .

I wish that I had the conviction that would permit me to write extensively on a subject. Perhaps I do, perhaps it is clouded by misconceptions, false perceptions, and incongruencies. Perhaps somewhere, deep within my psyche, lies the passion to preserve, the stature to stand tall, and the will to write. Yet I must continue with my verbose, but almost fully meaningless jargon. True, meaning can be applied, extrapolated, stimulated, injected, and otherwise forced onto a paragraph, but where is the true meaning? Where is the heart, that red-blooded organ that forces the writer's extensive emotions onto the paper, squeezed like frosting onto a bittersweet pastry? Certainly my writing is soulful, for what author does not impart, whether intentionally or otherwise, an abstract spirit, a noncorporeal meaning to the words that litter his or her manuscript like so many razor-sharp can lids.

Like those lids, cluttered ideas and thoughts are both detrimental and positive, a pollution of the reader's brain waves. They cut, but they cut everyone and everything they come in contact with. The concepts imparted can be used any way the critic might desire - but in the end they do only damage.

Contrariwise, when writing is full of vigor and life it is like a scalpel or a sword. The bold writer wields her weapon of choice with full knowledge of the consequences of her actions. She may dissect or dismember, demonstrating her prowess. She prowls, she is a hunter. Unfortunately, I am not her. As a confused writer, my scalpel is blunt. Desperately my patient acts as my lawyer, impressing on the jury that I intend only good, that I attempted to purify and improve his body and mind. Heedlessly they would see only the facts. Data.

"You killed a man!" they scream, and knobby fingers point as the bars slide shut over my face. But even in prison they cannot take my scalpel from me. I can hone it on the iron clad door of hardship, sharpening it on the stone walls of my cell. There I wait for the guard to bring me food. His intentions are irrelevant, for his death shall be swift and sweet. No more delicate measurements, no more fumbled attempts at improvement. A lobotomy requires no experience to enact.

I am free to roam the streets again, with a sharpened wit and a chaotic mind. Beware.

Momentum in life -

Momentum of - life

Momentum - is life

Deep, deep inside,
Fierce anger resides,
Wherein dost it lie?
Beneath the frozen mountain.

Cocaine desires,
Matched only by fire,
Where lives the masked man?
Atop the frozen mountain.

Sweet innocence,
Lacking in cognizance,
Where does she travel?
Through the frozen mountain.

Trouble is only a moment away,
Night falls and the moon holds sway,
Where is resistance futile?
About the frozen mountain.

All around,
Wolves are howling,
The child cowering,
The man's face scowling.

One could suppose,
Appoint or interject,
But in reality she dies,
That is what I suspect.

Some would call it cynicism,
Some would call it realism,
Where is this schism?
It is the frozen mountain.

Brush so fine,
Altruistic design,
Will be mine.

Fine!
Design me an airplane!
Mine will be much better . . .

Feel my touch,
Like a crutch,
You use it to feel your way.

See my skin,
Lit from within,
You use it to see your way.

But if you had more sense than I,
You'd know exactly why I cry,
And why my heart it breaks so fine,
Into pieces that defy design.

Hear my voice,
You have no choice,
But to find me on your way.

Smell my fear,
Inside here,
You cannot hide today.

But if you had any sense at all,
You'd know exactly why I fall,
And why my heart it hardly breaks,
Because of all the scars you make.

This is for all the times I died,
And wanted simply to melt in your arms,
And this is for all the times I cried,
When you never went deeper than your charm.

And no longer,
Do I search for you,
No longer do I hunger.

And you my friend,
Will never taste,
My innocence again.

In a vain quest for recognition . . .

Is she really on fire?

Or is it an illusion . . .

An illusion spawned by the wind,

Or the sunlight,

Or my tears.

I view the world through saltwater lenses,
My life is an infinite stream of cadenzas,
Some are improvised,
Some are fights for my life,
But life is only an illusion, right?

Like her.

Like her fire . . .

What kind of dastardly hero would destroy the things she loves? What kind of demented autistic author would mangle your mind in a vain attempt to twist it conceptually? Can I truly categorize myself as sane while I allow such insanities to continue? I am a fraud, intellectually and realistically. I sit on my copiously overweight pompous rear while I spin tales of dread and disaster, all while intentionally misconstruing your perspective on the universe. Everyone has an agenda and mine is.



There see? I have done it again.


Sincerely,
- Myself

P.S. Beauty comes through repetition, imitation, and the employment of derivativeness.

I open my arms,


Welcome myself.

Hug myself.

Caress my sadly unfondled inner child, who's only wish was to be seen.

My only wish.


I throw my arms wide and leap from the banister.

There is nothing here for me now.

I'll drown myself in the sea of dissonance.

That beautiful aether drink . . .


Splat!

I am gone.

I had forgotten how water reacts when approached at a high velocity.


I had forgotten how life reacts when approached at a high velocity.


I had forgotten how people react when approached by me.

When I approach.




When I approach . . .

I sit poised, fingers at the ready. My right pinky rests heavily on the shift key, the rest of my hand tensed in anguish, waiting for the signal to begin. It takes but a moment to end the strange silence, my thoughts racing ahead of my fingers, not allowing them to cease their fluid motion. One after the other letters, numbers, commas, and periods are swept out of their chaos into order. Meaning cannot be derived from such patterns, these strange nonsensical combinations of shapes and sounds, dots and lines, rhetorics and derivatives. I am like a racer of ostriches, of cheetahs, of other animals of grandeur that all await my command to pounce, to leap, to soar on the effervescence of the imagination.

Wait!

My thoughts grind to a halt. The eagle freezes in midair, the leopard stops mid-pounce, the breathe of fresh air, of intellectualism, of creativity; they all stop as my mind balks. My fingers stumble, a key is hit out of place. Another follows. Niagra falls is nothing compared to the chaos that is brought about by my disturbed thinking. Grass withers and dies, trees change colors and shed their leaves in a vain attempt to gather energy for resisting. Resisting me. The change is instantaneous - animals grow old and die, never to reproduce, never to enjoy the now defunct joys of nature.

Wait!

The spirit of logic, that tiny voice of reason begins it's approach. Slowly at first, methodically. Detailed. Mandated. I am the tool of something larger, which is in turn the instrument of an infinite number of scientists hovering over cold wooden tables, the lamplight burning dimmer with each passing minute. Hour. Day. Week. Eternity.

Wait!

Ah, there it is, that creativity which I had harnessed so immediately. I grab hold of it, using that energy, that spiritedness to depress the backspace key, to erase that chaos. The destruction. Even cold logic cannot combat the brilliant fervor of my emotion as I begin again to write.

To create.

To destroy.

To be.

When I sit in a crowded cafe sipping my coffee, I am frequently lost in my own musings. Cliché though it may be, the muffled sounds of traffic and idle conversation provide a setting of pseudotranquility, a moment-within-a-moment. This subtle noise that permeates the atmosphere of that room is indicative of true music, of which I have spoken before. Seemingly patternless, stagnant, unimpressive sound that coalesces into one's eardrums like so many chattering birds behind a glass wall, this atmosphere is awkwardly conducive to thought. Unfortunately, when others also lapse into silent thought, that atmosphere is lost, and replaced with a serene calm, that has almost the opposite effect. Every movement, every heartbeat is detectable, and life grows detailed. Meticulous. Fortunately there are very few who would silence themselves long enough to contemplate anything except whether they want one or two shots of espresso, and so the meaningless, derivative chatter continues.

I am prone to wonder if perhaps there is some other universe where the silent thoughts of so many people in our universe sitting in coffee shops fuel the musings of those people. If so, what will happen when those few intellectuals left in the world pass on? Another entire dimension may be destroyed in one fatal instance. Trying to think, the poor people of that world will hear only the noise of so many discussions, ranging from fashion to business, language to mathematics, and war to peace. Death to death. Perhaps their politicians, if they have those sort of people, will pass bills and move movements to silence the mental distortion that is corrupting their people. But in the end, the only silence will be death.

For us, and for them.

Lost in the wind,
The sands of time,

Overwhelmed,
By inefficient rhyme,

Brought about by
All that is dead.

So says the man,
As he loses his head,

Goes berserk,
Destroys his kin,

"I've been mistreated!"
He kills to win.

"Pardon me sir,
You dropped your knife,"

"Don't talk to me"
Snarls the other,

"You beat your wife!"
"So? You killed your mother!"

What if lightning was sentient?

Can you imagine? First the awkward birth, neural tendrils springing from midair. There are no elders, no mentors, no parents. Just you and the sky. You start down, slowly at first. After all, you've only been alive for a mere fraction of a second. The feeling of freedom is like a hot rush of air as you begin your long journey towards the ground. But why think about that? You've still got your whole life ahead of you! And so you'd weave and you'd dodge, your heart leaping as you fly across the black night sky, spreading your light, your heat, your life. Look! A steeple!

What better place to land?

Sad, a tragic death.

He should have known better . . .

Don't you know
That all the world is spinnin
Inside out
That all the world is feeling
Shades of doubt
Shades of grey that tell us
Nothing's okay

Don't you know
That all the world is spinnin
Wrong side 'round
That all the world is feeling
Up-side down
Swinging from a pendulum
Tick-tock tick-tock

Don't you know
I've got the key to gravity
Locks the door
And sets the whole world free
Wonder why
They reach for the sky
Feelin' free

Don't you know
Their flying really high
Stopping there
But they still rub the sky
Wear it down
To a painfully fragile shell
Starts to break

Breakin down

Touch the ground

Read your face

In disgrace

Incomplete

Cut your feet

Unlock the door

They won't come back anymore . . .

Sleep inside your mind.

Waiting like the dog you are.

Sleeping in your mind.

Waiting in your mind.

Don't tell anyone!

There's a window in your psyche.

And it's hungry.

Voodoo Of My Heart

You don't really,
You just pretend,
Like a very short road with no end,

You rend my heart when you feel this way,
But you dare not change,
No, not today.

You look my way,
I see your face,
But it's still only the one that you put in place.

Not a flashing light,
Not a burning beam,
All I see is that you seem.

Seem to be,
Seem to be free,
But it's all locked up inside of me.

You think you've killed
The other you,
But everytime I look inside I see right through.

Not inside yourself
Like you think you are,
But you're inside me, like an awful scar.

Like a burning ember,
Flame and glory,
That constantly tells me your story.

You wonder why,
This distance you feel,
And why when you hurt I am the one who squeals.

Are you blind?
Are you deaf?
To see me carry your pain?

But I do so with love,
In the hopes that one day,
You'll turn to me and say:

"Thank you"

"And thus Logos spoke to the masses: 'Do you not feel the need to live free? What is the price of freedom but choice? And the consequences of our choices will live with us whether we be free or not! Therefore, does it not follow that we should desire freedom above all else, that we should truly enjoy the choices we make?' But the masses replied: 'We do not need your freedom, we have made our choice. We do not need your freedom, we have submitted ourselves.' And a few with wisdom said amongst themselves 'Would our submission to him not violate the very freedom he requires us to attain?' And so once the crowd dissipated these wise men met with Logos, and he instructed them in their own wisdom."

- Andre's Diary

Alright, I couldn't do it.

I'm mildly ashamed, but now only the mug of coffee on the table and tall white expanse of my refrigerator bear witness to my blushing.

Tomorrow I'll hit the library.

Maybe I'll find some answers . . .

In the meantime, I think I'll read a little farther into that book.

Hands shaking, I placed the paper back into the billfold of my wallet.

That was the eighth time I'd read it.

I wish it was kind of strange to me that I knew the precise number of times I'd read the letter, but the truth is, it wasn't. You see, when I'm put in a stressful situation I tend to wrap myself in details.

Lots of details.

For one thing, the box was made of cedar. I'm no naturalist, but I know that cedar likes to grow in swampy areas.

Just so you know, there's a massive swamp not even three miles from here. Town Hall was gonna' turn it into a development, but the boss man said it was too dangerous.

And rumor has it one of the workers disappeared.

Now, I'm not usually the adventurous type,

But curiousity does sometimes get the better of me . . .

Sometimes I wish I could dilate time . . .


Hurriedly I throw on my coat and rush into my car. I can only hope the box hasn't been auctioned off yet. As I drive I cannot help but glance repeatedly at my watch. I know that it takes precisely six and a half minutes to get to the house, but with sufficient motivation I think I can make it in three.

It's been two and a half.

Rounding the corner, I pulled awkwardly into the driveway, almost rear-ending a beautiful new mercedes. With a prayer and a promise I jogged towards the now-ending auction.

It was still there.

So now I waited.

Very few people were left, but there was one man in particular who I was wary of. He was a tall man, dark skinned with a pronounced chin. His glances my way were anything but friendly. Wait, hold on.

The box is being auctioned.

"Can I get twenty five dollars for this beautiful antique box! Made of-"the auctioneer stopped and sniffed the outside.

"Do I hear twenty?" he resumed. No sooner had I raised my hand then I heard a reedy voice from the crowd.

"Twenty thousand dollars!"

I couldn't help myself, I almost swallowed my own tongue. There was no way I could afford that much for the box, I barely earned that much in six months. I pushed my way to the front and stood at the auctioneer's feet.

"That box was left to me by my father and is my legal property!"

I hadn't planned to put it that way, but in retrospect it sounded very official, almost scripted. The auctioneer looked at my license and flipped through his copy of the will before he continued.

"Sold, to the young man with connections." The icy glares from the gathered bidders could not phase my joy at getting something for free (even if it wasn't really worth 20k). Walking on air, I returned to the car. As I pulled out, something caught my eye. It was the tall man, donning a khaki trenchcoat, and looking my way. Before he could catch my attention and force me to stop I quickly backed out (in the process almost destroying a positively gleaming Benz) and continued on my way.

I had the book.

Dearest Son,

There are so many things that I wish I could have told you during my life. How much I loved you. How proud I was of you. All of these and more, but most importantly, I must instruct you on the proper disposal of this book.

First and foremost, it must not be destroyed. I can only assume you've read it by now, and that you see how imperative it is that it stay preserved. On the other hand, it must be hidden for a very, very long time.

Son, I know I was never the greatest father. I've always been a writer first and a dad second, and I regret that with every aching beat of my heart. So it breaks my heart even more that I must leave you with so great a responsibility.

The book must be hidden, preferably in stone, although water would suffice and might be better over the long term. Do as you feel is necessary to ensure it's continued safety and secrecy.

Please . . . I beg you . . . do not hate me for this.

"And so Logos struggled whilst the waters overcame him. Lo, it was too late, and the waters didst consume him."

- Andre's Diary


Today I found a box in the attic. Because of my sadness at my father's death, I found that taking the things that once belonged to him was a task far too emotionally taxing. Now, precisely one month and seven days after his death, I wish only that I had discovered this thing sooner.

The book is strange, written almost like the bible in manner and in verse. It seems to chronicle the journey of someone named Logos, and my hands tremble for some unknown reason every time I turn the pages. It is as if something dreadful waits inside, some deep dark secret, drawing me in . . .

Consuming me.

Alas, I cannot continue any longer. I won't bring it back to my house, I feel that the temptation would be too great.

The house is to go up for auction, and all the contents within sold to the highest bidder. May whoever recieves this book have more luck than I with it.


What's this? As I replaced the book in its box a sealed envelope fell out. It has my father's name written on it!

I don't have much time, I'll just put it in my pocket and be on my way . . .

I know it's too late for me to hide it.

I wanted to hide the box, to drop it in the deepest part of the ocean.

But I couldn't.

So instead I called in my lawyer, had him write up my will.

I'll leave it to my son . . .

Maybe he'll be able to finish what I started.

But I can only hope against hope that he'll never open it.

Hope . . . what a frail thing for me to cling to in my last moments.

Hope . . .

This paper I found, it can't be for real!

I won't even begin to cover what it says . . .

Not that I could if I wanted to.

For now I'll just put it back in the box.

Dear God, I hope I never see it again.

Sometimes I wonder if all illness is psychosomatic. Any scientist worth his salt will tell you this is not the case, that psychosomatic illness lies in a completely different category from most sicknesses and that the two should be treated and dealt with differently. But my thought is, if you can make yourself sick with only the power of your mind, can you not heal yourself through positive thinking? If I could now recall every story I've ever heard of people who "fought the illness to the end" I would have examples, but sadly I do not; I can only suppose that perhaps the reason I am sick so infrequently is due to my own mindset about illness. But I could be wrong.

And I probably am.

I am the victim of my own immaturity, coupled with cognizance of the fact.

"Come . . . see the violence inherent in the system!"

My question to you all: what system has not yielded violence in one form or another? Or even better, is it the systems that are flawed, or the people attempting to implement them? Obviously rhetorical questions, but the point stands valid. In truth, violence is the ocean surrounding our tiny island of humane desires, quests for truth, and open mindedness. Even the tiniest wash of spray maddens us with our desire for the forbidden, self-destructive salt water: and how can we dip into it without our clothes crusting upon return? It is for naught I say, to cleanse oneself in a pool of filth, even if one desires that manner of filthiness. The filth does not change, only one's perspective on it.

But on the other hand, there are ways to use violence to one's advantage. On our small island, a villager is condemned of thievery, and is forced to consume a cup of this seawater. Driving him mad, he beckons for others to follow as he leaps into the sea, never to be seen again. And, drenched in the waters of evil, the councilman turns on his friend and bashes his face in with a stone.

There is no sanctuary from it, only death.

Wax me purple,
Truss me up in green,
Feeding on the colors of white,
Dissasembling those that might,
Injure me.

Wading in rain is wrong,
Should never be done,
Or thought, or sung.

But wading in rain,
Washes your soul,
Brightens your ears,
But for a lull;

And lightning,
Sears your mind,
Bringing peace.

Music speaks to me in a way that touches me more profoundly than any other medium. It is at the same time elegant, boisterous, mysterious, and something that is both entirely new and indescribably old.

Also interesting is the distinction between rythm and music. I feel that while the two are commonly lumped together, there is a distinct difference. The bubbling of a brook, wind in the trees, a cricket chirping - these are music. But rythm is a human invention, born of a love for predictability and order. When the two are coalesced then is this new form created, a distinctly human kind of music. The ultimate culmination of the beautiful chaos of music and the boring repetition of rythm.

I understand that it may seem that I am biased towards one of the two, but the truth is that it is the human kind of music that I appreciate most. That divine dissonance that expands and becomes more than music or rythm alone is key to my own music. The truth is that we all have our own kind of "human music," and mine is.

Fiscal Sovereignty

Instinctual manacles
Bound with strands of radicals
Intrigued by philosophi
Entombed by sarcophagi
Sciences overlayed on insanities of pain
Lead us back to those of us
Who are more likely to constrain
Inside us all are butterflies
But most are missing wings
And regardless of how hard they try
Butterflies can't sing.

In a sense one could say that I'm feeling pervicacious.

One could also say that this is quite bodacious.

But God has given me some degree of patience.

So I'll extrapolate by saying "why don't you stop being rascist!"

There are a million people in this cold, desolate city, and they all want the same thing. They want John Murkov dead.

We're not bigots. Sure we aren't, and we've at least got the guts to say something about it. Not like those stinking republicans. Always yackin' and . . . well . . . you get the point.

What'd he do that was so bad? Why's everyone got him nailed over the dartboard in the bathroom?

It's kinda' hard to say, like trying to tell a gal ya' like that it'd be better if you and she were "just friends" if'n ya' catch my drift.

But truth be told, it doesn't really matter why anymore. He'll be on tha' throne tomorra' and there's not much anyone can do about it. Even the mayor's said he's given up. Prolly a good thing, I seen a few riots, and they 'aint pretty.

Five hundred. Can you believe it? Five hundred nigs and he laid 'em out flat in that little boat of his and sailed halfway 'round the world to send 'em back. What kinda' monster'd do something like that?

In my opinion he's whacko. When we found him and brought 'im in all he'd talk about was how the mayor was gonna' ruin the world, and that we were 'elping 'im. Well course we were! Mayor's gotta' lot of bright ideas for this here city, and I'll be hanged if'n I let some fanatic nigsailer go truckin them animals off to places where they'll just pollute the genetic pool again.

Still, he did manage to round 'em all up, it's a wonder how he did it. If he weren't gettin' throned tomorrow I'd have him join the force, we could use a guy like him to help keep the peace.

Well, it's about time for my boat to leave. I'm bound for Africa.

Gotta' round them things up afore they get too far, otherwise th'emperor'll have my head for lettin' all them nigs run loose. Hopefully they won't get ta' rapin' and the like before I get there.

I'd hate to have to kill any white folk.

Smoke is grey.

Pfft, as if that was the only color possible.

Smoke can be a multitude of visual flavors, it all depends on what you burn.

What you sacrifice.

I've always liked the grey smoke though . . . It's a shame something has to be burned, to be sacrificed, in order for smoke to exist. Not like fog. Fog is disgusting anyway. All slimy and wet and . . . cold.

Smoke likes to curl around your toes and fingers, and bounce across the insides of your nose. It seems almost jovial, until it reaches your eyes. Then it stings. Stings hard too. It's hard to say why I like smoke really. There isn't much to it. It's just . . .Toxic air.

But there's something innately appealing in smoke, something that pulls at the core of my being.

So there you have it.

But please, don't even get me started on fog . . .