When creating imagery, it is important not to restrict the other's imagination.

Coaching bringing,
To the front of the line,
Running singing,
She'll be much better now.

So I think he,
Will be fine as well,
They'll be good free,
Free from their old lifestyle.

And I'll be here,
Urging them forwardly,
Trying to keep them orderly.

Go on, go on.

In the Land of the Blind, the One-Eyed Man Is Crazy

“Poor child.” The words echoed, dusty, resurrected from distant memory. “Born with hypersensitivia. How sad that we have discovered only now, when it is too late to really treat.”

“Now now” a calm male voice chimed in. “He can still live a normal, active life, as long as his hallucinations do not interfere with his ability to think and reason. For now, have him take these.”

“Will they prevent the hallucinations entirely?”

“I cannot make any guarantees; however, they should keep him from slipping too deep.” A brief pause. “Let me know if his condition worsens after puberty. For now, this is all we can do.”

Adam remembered the first time they appeared. At first it was subtle. Suddenly, heavy and light textures would mix into his perception, as if his very brain was betraying him. The experience was indescribable – like the warm touch of carpet, with different striations and details that would slowly become more and more apparent. They seemed friendly and inviting, but he was told not to embrace the hallucinations. Your eyes, they said – there is something wrong with your eyes.

It didn’t feel wrong, Adam thought. But then, it never did. Insanity, that is. They say that those who are insane can never admit it. That’s why he took the pills. They kept the visions away. His hands moved to the bottle in his hand, thumb roving over the patterns engraved in the side. Still, that was before, when he was a child. Today he was alone. Today he would not take them. He had to know.

Had to know if he was crazy.

First there were the withdrawals. He tossed and turned in bed, the covers thrown back with the force of his gestures. His hand hit the nightstand, and he cried out in pain. It was many hours before he could sleep, and even then it was a cold, nightmarish sleep, full of strange dreams. He dreamt of cold concrete, of a ramp that he could never quite reach the top of. In his dream, he felt the hallucinations begin to come, and the top of the ramp was suddenly perceivable, almost as if he could feel it before he was there. He woke with a fury, sitting upright with such vigor that his heart pounded with adrenaline.

What had woken him was incredible. The strange feelings that he had once experienced as a child had returned, strong as ever. It was as if he had suddenly sprouted thousands of extra hands, and they were all roving over every object in the room simultaneously. Still, the sensation was nothing like touch. He couldn’t tell the temperature of the nightstand, nor the texture of the walls, but he knew they were there. He knew where everything was. He took a step forward, cane in hand. Then another, and another. He marched through the doorway out into the kitchen, still invigorated with his experience. Wishing to try this new ability, he kicked the doorpedal and, surprised by the sudden intensity of the day, screamed.

Even as the heat from the day flooded in, Adam’s whole body shuddered with fear. The hallucinations had suddenly ten thousand times more vivid, and he felt as though his mind was being inundated by a smooth, constant stream of sound, like a high note on a clarinet being played for an impossibly long time. The strange feeling did not subside, but slowly he felt the notes disassemble themselves. Like the harmonies of some great magnum opus, different parts of the sensation separated and made plain their differences. He knocked against the door, and obediently it swung open further, granting him a plane of vision that was totally incomprehensible.

It was reckless, he knew, but Adam detached the cane from his wrist entirely and threw it aside. Somehow, he thought, I don’t think I’ll need it. It was with a great, joyous cry that he flew down the ramp into the street, probing in any and every direction with his newfound sense. No one was around, and who could blame them? Only the bravest of athletes would get up this early in the day cycle, when the heat was at its strongest. With the ululation of a madman, Adam shuffled back and forth, picking his feet up more than he had ever dared before. Recklessly he began to walk. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, eventually moving so fast that only one foot was on the ground at a time. With the wind rushing past his ears, he cried out one last time.

“I CAN SEE!”

The ego thrives on delusion; because, without hallucinating its own importance, it cannot survive.

Pluck!

From there!
The sound emerges.
A pinpoint, no, a cave,
A wave that echoes as it surges
Through the echoes
Of my imagination
What configuration will it show?
When into my ear it flows . . .

WAIT!
The throes of death!
I, in horror, fascinated
Cold mounds of sweat
That channel my curious anxiety,

For the sound does not live past today,
Not even this moment may contain it,
It is eternal, but manifest only momentarily,
In memory it may emerge again
But for now, it rests.

Objective achieved.

Brick Lobe

Your words are foul pellets
Like rubber bullets
You throw syllables at my ears
But they only bounce off
A brick lobe.

Mispronunciated

Circumlocution means
Paying homage to
Dielectric execution
So, when next you suffocate
Don't forget to hate
Roget.

What is the difference between the student and the teacher?

Both must occupy the same space, at the same time. While the teacher grades the students, the students work for the teacher. In other words, both must put effort into the relationship. Both, optimally, are focused on self-education. In short, the defining lines that distinguish the difference between the teacher and the student are blurry and vague, unclear social guidelines for academia. In truth, a student is a teacher, and a teacher a student, for both ought to further themselves in this regard. Truly the sharing of knowledge knows no superior, for all who seek it will find it within their grasp, and in this way be filled with the never-ending hunger to know more.

Jerk

Yes, there are stupid questions
Like the one you ask me all the time.
"Where are we going?"
I don't know, idiot.
Don't ask me that.

When you ask me something I don't know,
It makes me look stupid
So don't do that . . .
Jerk.

Wonderful World

Well you see friends shakin’ hands,
But I demand that you point them out.
Sure, my friends shake,
Right before they grind up real close
To get a better idea of what they’re missing.
Maybe now the chemical cocktail will take them
One step closer to nirvana
Like it did the first time.

My soft drinks are green, red, and yeah, blue,
And it’s the soft hands that drive a hard bargain
With a hard needle that pierces invisible flesh,
So now my head’s up in the clouds,
But it’s like eternal rain,
As little droplets run down my face,
With the pit-pat of moist feet.

Always with the lies . . .
Maybe it used to be that way buddy,
But don’t gimme crap about lighting up
It’s the only light I’ve got.

Why do we deify ancient philosophers, when they were merely men with ideas?

The more truth there is to a statement, the more likely it is to offend.

Intellectual success is frequently hidden by a veil of economic failure.

$epulcher

I cannot bear to suffer this question anymore. My life rotates and simultaneously revolves frenetically around a single point: money. This is, in a word, ridiculous. Let me put forth some of those things which plague me most frequently:

May I have an education?
Money.

May I focus on furthering my artistic ability?
Money.

May I travel where I wish?
Money.

May I devote my time to ministering to others?
Money.

There is no bitterness, there is no hate, there is no pride, there is no willful ignorance, there is no tyrant that avoids money - all these things embrace it; indeed, these things are only a small sample, for money permeates our culture as a cloud of dust permeates the asthmatic's lungs. It stifles creativity, rewards the vapid, and promotes laziness in the well-to-do. What lazy man is motivated to work because of money? No one fails to nap for want of money, for laziness cannot be cured by any external medicine, only by a change of heart.

Still, the world would not survive without money, for humankind is greedy, and loves to possess without standards. Truly, what is possessed is not as important to the greedy as the quantity and quality of one's possessions.

I curse money and all that it stands for, for though money has done me many a favor, it has done me disservice many times over.

Another dreary day to add to my cyclical life; even so, life itself only a part of many larger cycles. Why is it that the stars can always be seen, but never touched? Must I really become an astronaut to live in the space that I can picture so vividly? What are the circumstances that would end my affliction? How hard must I yearn before I have the will to succeed? I must take initiative!

Nevermind.

Antipathy/Empathy

Look into the stars,
Seize the thread that you seek,
The colour and shape,
Of victory.

Reach into the earth,
Make your feet dance,
The wicked tango,
Of deceit.

Pull flesh from bone,
Within your heart, live,
Pulse with the awareness,
Of love.

In frictionless heat,
Is the change of heart,
Exploding with the coldest,
Of fusion.

Still water and sky,
May speak 'neath the sun,
As its rays connect those who ne'er mingle,
One to another.

When senses fall short,
The mind assumes their burden,
Crush the mind and win.