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 . . .