Legalities
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by:
Pali Productions Inc.
http://Pali.Ca
Published
by:
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Copyright
by:
Steve
Glickman © 2010
SteveG@Pali.Ca
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Originally published as paperback ISBN# 0-9688658-4-4, 1998.
Behind the scenery, becoming the scenery.
Table of Contents
“TO BE AN HONEST MAN WAS TO BE THE LAST TRUE OUTLAW” - TOMAS SANCHEZ
WHAT I LOVE LEAVES; WHAT LOVES ME LIKES TO HURT ME
THE RENT WAS CHEAP AS A SATURDAY NIGHT’S PITCH HITTER
UNCRITICAL LOVE TO LAST A LIFETIME
ONE DAY THIS GREED WILL SHAKESPEARE
I THOUGHT I TOLD HER I LOVED HER, BUT I GUESS SHE DIDN’T HEAR
Chapter 1
aProCon
MHOANEY
The outlands, full of trash.
Focus through the eyelids, focus through the pain. Relax, surrender to the weight, to the waiting, to the suffering, to the silence, towards the triangle; where falling feels more like floating, where your heart is as soft as clay.
As the blood begins to carry its message out to the skin, the force of immobility cedes to the shockwaves of life. The audience sits stunned in the headlights. Nothing happened except an awakening, and the craving has not yet materialized. As the body regains consciousness, dreams become unrealized desires.
Where the curtain of water opens up, I’ll step through the stone behind. With just a little positive attitude, a world of negative experiences can be easily drained away. Illuminated from the darkest tunnels, the rubble reminds me of a theatre. From all over the land they come to worship the land. Beautiful people made more beautiful by holy intuition.
At the crossroads where good and evil meet life and death, we stand like signposts. Brainwaves cancel each other out until there is only breath. Our this, our that; or this or that. Whatever doesn’t come easy is best left untouched; like the radiant skin she sees judging her in the mirror.
Blessed is the sinner, for he is a virgin in the eyes of the enlightened. Blessed is the thief, for he has only himself to blame for being cheated out of inner peace. Blessed are the blessed, for they march to that distant shoreline. Blessed are the children, for only they will ever know what it is that we do.
“TO BE AN
HONEST MAN WAS TO BE THE LAST TRUE OUTLAW”
-
TOMAS SANCHEZ
Ironically or not, history has taught us how to hide the truth behind details. Every argument fingers a crime. The underworld smothers us in our final daze. A legacy of denial backfires onto shocked faces, gaping mouths swallowed by mute fury.
There was a crooked man, he lost it all just to be crooked. Years before I was born, and he knew exactly who I was: A paint-by-numbers kit, put together like a jigsaw puzzle, to unravel like a tornado. Keeping it to himself to turn it all around on me.
Not a plot is wasted. Not a leaf overturned. Not a twist unchartered. Count down the merging cultures. A two sided pyramid; those ancient gods knew long before we got a chance to fill it full of confident demands. Some other obstacle lies buried in the jungle. Loosen the limbs from their lessons of learning. Outperformed, and an inside job.
As the prices rise, the value drags behind each and every one of us holding the bag. The hunger grows, makes the most of contradictions to popular belief; the fear paralyzes. Pressure junkies playing the panel of our merry-go-round. The conflict originates on boardroom letterheads. Leaving us snooping around in the trash for incriminating leftovers.
The interest rates drive our attention out the window. Scratch a silhouette into the painting. The smell is under house arrest. A guard stands indifferently outside the gates of the temple. Wash away the fear with the knowledge to control the ignorant.
Doesn’t anyone understand my acting? The shutter shudders. The heaviness creeps in. My love rises to dizzying heights. Wherefore are the children? What a piece of work have we made of this land? We line up in a very hazardous manner. Knock down the lamppost to see if the bulb needs changing. The jukebox is full of unfinished chants.
Skewered by their disappointments. Dragged down to the shower door. Louder and louder until all I can do is drink them down the toilet that’s been my soul. It’s something else to see the negative vision clear as day. I could try to explain it, but it would involve me going into an empty room and getting the shit kicked out of myself.
Like a shark to the shame, he came storming into the room; but I could tell that there was really nowhere else I could have been. The corners spun me to the front lines. There’s a lump in my throat that gets the best of me. I find it hard to concentrate without a cause.
They know nothing about me, preaching about how much we have in common. Wishing me luck while peeling me apart. I’m so full of black, being too colorful. There’s room for all of us here in my bottle. My dick hangs his head in shame, the booze leaves no clues. Maybe it’s right, maybe I’m only good at being bad. I mean, just look at that guy facing the wall, begging to forget his banging head and GET IT OUT OF MY FUCKING MIND !!
…
Hold on now; just let it go.
…
Let me tell you about the first tribal ball player. He was a total asshole. No one liked him. When he was sick everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Crows would fly from him, blocking out the sun. If it wasn’t for the money he’d have been a magician. Behind his back people turned away in disgust. Holding onto terror, he would sink his fangs of pity.
Leaving a legacy of bad taste, sickness and bile were his servants. Jaws would clench at the sight of his laugher. Pus seeped from every pore of his poor posture. The anger grew around him like an atomic cloud. Anything beautiful was compromised for his confidence. His career careened off of everything within his grasp. Laws were there to prove wrong. He made his home in loop holes. Everyone could see through his shit with their eyes closed.
There he sat: King what’s-his-name and his court of jesters. Patting himself on the back for every betrayal. A hole is a whole lot better than believing in his nothing. For know, words are not strong enough to describe his encryption. What was needed was a nonviolent satisfaction. What he really deserved was a great big loss.
HOME BOUND
Airports, jovial dancing insults. Endless carpets to puke on, to try to sleep on. Glass vistas to announce a frozen future. The gift shop, full of insignificant trinkets to haunt long into a sensible life of consumption. Toys to tranquilize. Always the easy insults, the abuse, the puke, BO, boredom, hard concrete floors covered in a skin of smelly toxic hair; the resented, pissed-off uniformed ladies looking down from the other side of ominous counters. The pissed-off emanations, the resented sagging faces; dared to show sympathy.
Endless empty hallways to explore. Arguments over toys, food, baggage. Seething hatred encouraged by the almighty dollar. Puking, ears popping uncontrollably. Fears and anguish. Stupid, uncaring, self-centered responses.
Pissed-off, pissing everyone off, and the smell of our piss, puke, and BO. King dreadful. Puking my guts out. Holding the puke in. Holding my ears together. Easy shot to pieces. Blame and shame. Hatred. Evil attacks upon the vulnerable. Poking fun at cheeks comically full of puke. Puking on siblings, puked on by siblings. Sleeping fitfully on airport carpets. Airplane seats that smell of jet fuel. Ears banging like a mad marching band. Arguments over seats. The pounding on our restlessness; our introduction into acceptance. Dread and grief that will surface years later without explanation. The denial fastened like the steel rivets used to hold the wings together. Counting down endless hours. Being lied to, “spanked” (hit) as a way for them to vent their frustration over aluminum, hard carpets, stale food, fuel. Sitting on runways, subjected to his enthusiasm about bossing around untold amounts of total strangers; because he stole from them. Scamming, screaming his way around the globe. Lying to himself, us, god, and the devil.
Lying on some airport carpet. Waiting for the world to accommodate his pushiness. The strain of all that sorrow slowly popping the rivets holding me together. My smile as phony as the patience of those women selling tickets, handing out food. The anger is coming in for an emergency landing. The puke is filling every crack.
Falling asleep to the hum of jet engines, my ocean of crashing waves taking me across continents to be pounded into. Hard, cold, steel armrests - their surrogate robot hands that spank in slow motion. An imposing, cruel place with no relief. The world looking small and insignificant under my father’s glee.
All those miles; I thought that I’d left them behind, but they have steamrolled me down deeper into the earth than I had ever risen. The pain in my ears cut holes into my spirit for his insults to germinate. The shame and acceptance have gotten hold of my foundation, like mold.
Saying goodbye was like saying hello. Don’t ask: If you haven’t been there, then you’ll never know. Growing down in bad memories, lost opportunities. Guilt like a choke collar. The mileage spins around me, bringing me back to the start with nothing gained. Minute changes which drastically stir me into oblivion; like trying to undo a twister, trying to bridge his faults. Racing the sun, I always got burned. Sonic doom. Outer space, inside a vacuum. A flying prison. A Trojan hearse.
Unidentifing flying object.
CAUGHT TWO
Cut to:
Present day. A small town. Outside of stadium. Banner reads: “WELCOME TO THE 60TH REUNION FOR THE CLASS OF 1938!”
Cut to:
Inside. Band of boys start to entertain the elderly crowd.
Cut to:
Shy old man, sitting with other old men, looking across the room at a shy old woman.
Cut to:
Shy old woman, alone; fingering large diamond ring. In her hands is a tiny sealed envelope. Looks out of the corner of her eye at old man.
Cut to:
1938. Interior. Opulent bedroom. A young girl sits in an expensive dress at her desk writing her heart out onto a small piece of paper (“I love you, I don’t know what I’d do without you, I don’t love xyx, I feel trapped, I need you, I’m so miserable, I can’t wait to be with you …”)
Cut to:
Exterior of a rundown farm. A group of boys are finishing up their chores, getting ready to go to their last graduation. The clothes are formal, but the poverty shows through.
Cut to:
Present day. Old man looks at his hands. They are rugged from a life of hard work.
Cut to:
1938. Girl is looking at herself in her mirror, she is in love. Everything seems to take.
Cut to:
Boys singing, excited. Lead singer looks at a flower, which he has picked to give to girl.
Cut to:
Old man looking at a flower in a vase at the center of his table.
Cut to:
Girl, walking down stairs to awaiting family and her date. Although she feels uncomfortable, she’s trying to hide her disappointment.
Cut to:
Boys, and father, getting into a horse drawn carriage.
Cut to:
Old man, taking flower out of vase.
Cut to:
Girl in the back of an expensive (1938) car. Siblings are fighting, the date just sits there like there’s nothing wrong, and parents are silent in the front. They drive by the boys, now stranded on the side of a country road with a broken carriage (the wheel has fallen off). As the car passes, the girl looks out the side window and makes eye contact with boy. Both are in shock. As the car drives away, she stares out the back window. When she turns around she sees her parents finding amusement, obviously there’s some animosity between the families.
Cut to:
Old woman, squeezing note.
Cut to:
Boys by the side of the road, their appearances are now ruined by the effort of trying to fix the carriage.
Cut to:
Parents letting girl and date out of car at a prom building (same as reunion). The car drives away, but the girl doesn’t do anything. Her date tries to get her to go in, but soon gives up and goes in with the others hanging around.
Cut to:
Boys leave father and carriage, start walking down a very long country road.
Cut to:
Girl standing alone in front of building. As she starts to cry the rain comes down hard. She stands sobbing as others are seen taking shelter in the building. Suddenly she bolts in the opposite direction, running in the rain.
Cut to:
Boys walking in the rain.
Cut to:
Old man, shuffling across room.
Cut to:
Girl collapses in a field.
Cut to:
Flower in boy’s hand, wilting and dripping the water from the rain.
Cut to:
Flower in old man’s hand.
Cut to:
Old woman, noticing old man shuffling to her from across the room.
Cut to:
Young girl, picking herself up. Rain stops. Wiping off face, mud from dress, and walking (tall) towards building.
Cut to:
Old man, presenting flower to old woman. She puts down the note to take the gift.
Cut to:
Boys, walking down road, through mist (rain has stopped).
Cut to:
Girl opening up door to building.
Cut to:
Old woman, noticing the door open.
Cut to:
Young girl, looking into the building, seeing all the old people; seeing the old woman with the old man.
Cut to:
Old woman smiling at girl (reassuring).
Cut to:
Girl finding the strength to smile back.
Cut to:
Young boy, putting flower down on the side of the road.
AS BLANK AS …
Good times got hold of my pride. My favorite word now insignificant. Eyes that scream to be fed. Lead to a bed of bills. Appearances disappear; disparaging remarks about various ethnic faces peer out from the concrete parlors. If I could only juggle words like they do on the news. Rosy lips, bullet breasts, helium hard hats, flashy cars, golden dreadlocks; and always the panhandlers, always the lame excuses for crushing. Food is the first casualty.
Deficient in vitamin I. Trying to fly, but unable to keep my chin up: Looking for some change. Pushing out palms at anything that may move me; when what’s really needed is to embrace the images opening up on the other side of the cellulite.
The front lines; the breakfast table. Storm the doors. It’s all so denied at the drop of a hat. Helpless, harmless, hopeless; harness their history. Heal ourselves before something really happens.
At play in the field of the words. Combining bohemian beats with updated feats. Sold so far down the river that land is just a foggy memory. Round and round on my merry-go-down. Overpowering the underprivileged.
They sure do pack those streets together, like sardines; but then here’s nothing original about them except how they shame the humble. Finding discomfort debating their ill-logic; expanding on the punishment. What is it that wants so badly to lead them to an jilted ending? Why can’t they fight anyone but themselves?
Did you see that?
There, it’s gone again.
TIRE-ANT
She drives me crazy, and I drive her mad.
Led by the irony. Waking up in the middle of a bad dream. One day these sexual urges will get me in over my head. I’ve worked it all out to a circle. Eyes like saucers; like eggs bleeding gooey golden fiber. The question came third, what comes fourth?
Most of us fall into general stereotypes, categorizing the best as rebels; yet the calm truth seeker who serves neither is indicted for his belief. Esoteric thoughts that kill. Sounds of gunfire heard through choking smoke. More moments with less loosing. Sending out love letters to the inner child, it’s hard to hear the response from such a far away orbit.
What’s the rush? Blushing and gushing, running from the homecoming. In some remote location, a group of nomads laugh uncontrollably around a fire pit. The reasons go unnoticed by us voyeurs. The story is generations old; as old as snow, as light as math, as deep as a bird, as bright as a wave, as hard as a canoe, as fast as a fish, as far away as next year.
Going the distancing factor. Hiding behind the playful anything. Reeling and rocking, riding the great creaking. Who am I not? Where am I not?
Totally incomplete at the goal line. Lost at home plate. Broken down twice. Homing in on the button. Pulling the rip cord at ground level. Pitching the ball from the locker room. Calling foul from the dugout. Going on and on on the whistle.
Terrified about losing the attention. The paint is facing the wrong direction. A need to be seen as someone seen. It’s time to stop worshipping the temple and step into the temple. Making a move towards the movement.
Once upon a time people roamed the trails like smoke. Nowadays we’re heavy as oil. I mean, who needs shit? Maybe if I could just end it then a story would have been told.
A fantasy world, better than any dream. Raising hypocrisy, bloodied barstools; some idiosyncrasy, selfish salesman shelling out stolen sheets. It’s late in the day and already the morning dew clouds my eyes. Stuck in the very worst kind of reunion, I’ll pretend that she’ll read this later with an open heart; but who am I really trying to kid?
To honor is not necessarily honorable. Fastened to the fast lane; the answer man is speechless. Perhaps I’ll quote all the great dictators when they groaned “don’t anybody care?” Just look at that defeated retreating pavement smacking of insignificance before my flat feet. See how they turn to meet their undertaker.
Another story, this time for all of us. My dream has started to come around. As the end approaches I’ve learnt to appreciate that I never really appeared as apathetic as I anticipated. The fantastacting was as real as it gets. Drinking any kind of poison so long as it would let me forget the death of my spirit. I finally believe what I was taught to bury in my sea of grief.
In the last couple of seconds, I’ll say a prayer to she that also wants to please. As long as we can both acknowledge the length of the fuse, there’s hope for escape.
LOST IT ALL TO THE SAIL
Squashed in the sofa. Squished beneath sofa seats. The weight of siblings, friends, parents; or anyone else who could be coerced. Embraced by furniture, foam cushions which trap the limbs. The feeling of being pinned down by someone’s ass. All hot and sweaty, breathing in the smells of years of grit; my embryo of spongy dusty squeezing comforts. The safety of those cushions, the loneliness of the pure darkness there under the pillows with me. No hands able to reach through that much foam to molest me.
Going back to my roots. Digging trenches in the dark hallways. Pouring my soul into lead flowerpots. Follow me as I perform dented experiments on rooftops. Missing inaction. Never in a million tears. The doorbells haven’t rung in a long time. Crimes of the part. Acting around it all over again. Just like talking heads rocking beds, flocking to sheds, not stopping at any hot spots.
Please bear with me once again for old time’s sake. Later on, I’ll turn it into something to spiral back to the ending. There are so many holes in the costume, the shoes are facing upwards, and the hat’s too wide.
All sold, also so old. There I go again, shadowed by the puddles. The immediacy Inca essence as I cruise the isles. Closing the book on belief. East eats west, north takes south for a long ride. There’s a smirk behind the smock. I think therefore I ham. Hollow points. Noah’s parked in the park, going nowhere no one’s never gone over before.
Trace our history through the dark ages and you’ll end up with a map of frustration. Ease into the rest of the room. The boat shakes apart, but we refuse to acknowledge that all the waves are racing away.
Idly by, tied to the crime. The first words to come rolling out are gasps. Sidestopping around so much shit that it seems like I’m going backwards. There are so many traps that I’m afraid to even clap.
It’s time for the great opening. I hear the sky being ripped open by hooves. When the clouds push the sun down, and the stars trick the moon out of hiding, I can see my breath even when I’m not breathing.
The birds sing to me about losing touch with reality. Sometimes the beauty is below the ice. Fighting like hell to stay on top, I’m in synch with the sink.
The endings are always so much softer than any beginning. I feel the power flow through me like 10,000 shadow dancers. Just like a pimp, I’ll cross reference all the emotions. Killing time, time after time. Nothing makes an impression on my subdued psyche.
As the top winds its way down, the years of abuse rise through. As easy people glide through classic movie sets, my head records a soundtrack in step with their backpeddling. I’ve seen it all before, sown together with straw. Trying too hard to let go. Concentrating too hard on nothing at all. Paying too much attention to the lack of attention. Laughing too hard at the pain. Knowing too much about my ignorance. Preaching too much about preciousness.
Just look at them glide across the marble. I’d like to balance it all upon a drop of water. The clock hands them another chance at responsibility, but it goes against all that they hold near. Smiles stare out from plexiglas prisons, promising relief if we can just be more like them than they really are.
Obsession, abandonment, gambling, and rambling on; shocked to discover the mirror, handing over a hard boiled world to the next 7,000 generations.
Oh, I need relief from all this releasing. Seeking affirmation only as an afterthought. Discovering that the laws of nature cannot be broken for long. Her skin really turns me on. Giving that face a real work out. Learning about life from Aristotle’s ego.
The addict’s shame hides buried in the fact that any contact is deemed successful. There are more security guards than there are secrets.
I’d like to take a moment to talk about those researchers. You know the ones hunting down the few remaining wild creatures through the sights of a dart gun. Myself, I’d rather see the bull on top. Getting back to those white smocked scientists, pretending that it’s in our best interest to approach the problem head first; pointing their fingers at the front lines, excusing their own behavior as excusable. I mean, what use is a radio collar to a giraffe? We all know that deep down inside all they really want is a nice furry cuddle. They’re so busy looking for the pulse that they’ve forgotten about their own hearts.
And let’s talk about those hairballs with wires coming out of their heads and chains around their necks. Watch out though, to stray too close to their mouth risks a big fat warm wet lick.
Does this bring tears to your throat, or are you still searching for that familiar part of your depraved self? The inspector should be more introspective. The paranoia is glorified. The denial is denied. The avoidance is slapping us stupid.
Take your eyes off the bulge and hang out with me for a while. Tonight’s serving is fillet of soul. Off with the asshole! Remember the rabies in white smocks?
A lesson: Never let go of grief, give it time to change into something productive. How to suffer from indulgence; make it not count. Analyzing the problem from the ass end (ie. CONSUMPTION), I came out of my shell before I could put on pretences. Arriving out of time, out of place, out of touch, and out of practice.
Always playing to the third person, playing to the audience, playing with the passion, playing the scales with a bar of soap. Making headway out of the hallway. Attacking the armor. Grappling with the glamour. Jabbing at the gibberish. Circling around the three cheers.
Sold into slavery by servants. The traps are so massive they’re appealing.
WHAT I LOVE LEAVES; WHAT LOVES ME LIKES TO HURT ME
The confidence man; the world’s smallest know-it-all. The wettest witness. The best spewer of whatever.
There’s two mirrors stuck back to back. If they didn’t already feel it then what are they trying so hard to hide? I can’t even talk to myself without all the shouting; shooting myself in the foot. So depressed that even the stars don’t make an imprint. Writing by the window while the drinks are poured.
I only hear the hushed messages. Is the needle responsible for skipping? Each word another tragic attempt to pull me out of the trash. They’ll never know because they don’t want to know; thinking that I’m not worth the telling. The tears don’t come easy. Nothing comes to me in the middle of the day. Numb around the waist. Numb around the neck. A crown of the itchiest shit you could imagine. An invitation to enter the exit sign. A wish to see all the endings just end, once and for all.
Retreating from the fame. Waiting for the gate to open and let something in. Hunting the backing. Fuck you and the army you’ve paid off to ride out on. I’ll rewrite my file for the rest of time. Look at him raising his fist, raising his voice; raising his balls at me. I couldn’t even reach his lies if I tried. Imagine it not happening; their masterpiece. Gone down that dusty road that’s been my smile.
Going where no hope roams. She grabbed me with her stink and I let go. They collected corruption like competing kleptomaniacs. I tried to make everything all right when the shoulder was the back of my own hand. Why do I try when it threatens my world so? There’s never enough time to catch up. Too tired of being mistaken. Too pathetic for pity. Swimming up the water, I’ll catch Niagara falling.
Having lived my entire life on the other side of joy, I’ve become the other thing that they love to hate so much; the nothing that’s preserved my desperation. I’ll grieve for my grief. I’ve lost my loss. The story of ending. The world’s a stage, but I was not allowed to act as anything but a doorman.
As we vanish into the new losses, no longer in need of the breeze. Indications are for a long hard look. I feel so at home in dead skin. Scouring the switchboard with a bandsaw. They gave such a shit, glaring at me like I’m blind. I’ve lost my island; I could care less. Stone cold sober. Disappointed knowing I’ve died unnoticed. Denial is death, and death is denial. I can’t be with her without selling myself short. All the great stuff just grates my nerves. Flashing the whites of my eyes at my own funeral.
B-b-b-boring; as I ponder my anger. They forbade me my right to refuse their guilt; with star-crossed written all over their faces. She’s breaking down all my barriers again. Playing my pipes like a car muffler. Dreading that period mark. Here comes the ending, again. Repeating myself by not repeating myself. Using myself up, playing down the pain. In intimate space, I’m for one to fixing it millions.
What’s the final cost of buying back the dignity? It’s an age old argument; I don’t know anyone like me. Everything’s changed but my core belief. Grandstanding from the underbelly. Sunk like a punk. Scraping the crust off the bottom to feed the feelings. No more medications to ease the addiction, I’ll retreat to the ceiling. A bird’s eye view of all the shit. History is all the denial with the bullshit cut out. In the depth of my despair, they won’t even dip their toes.
The indicated patient throws a fit in the circle of laughter. God came stormping down on my beautiful conception. I need something to affirm my rejection. Tomorrow is showing its ugly head again. My back is cracked in every place possible. My mentors were monsters. The intentions were too intense. The whole thing is entirely incomplete. The puppet is caught in a net. It sounds so great until one considers the coarseness of the communion.
I can hear the wailing of the ancient ones. There’s a new invention that designs instructions for all our useless machines. All and alone. Don’t laugh when it’s putting us to sleep. The shock wave should come as no surprise.
Feelings never lie, people have feelings, people lie. What gives? Everyone crowds around the TV jet, but from a distance the subtitles look flat. In three dementia space, we’ve found a million ways to go numb. There are some responses that I just can’t address, like a gold plated birdcage:
“We refuse to answer your foolish questions.”
“Aren’t you attacking the wrong person?”
“People have survived much worse much better.”
“We were only trying to help you.”
“How could you feel that way?”
THE RENT WAS CHEAP AS A SATURDAY NIGHT’S PITCH HITTER
There’s nothing as pleasing as an empty bar, that’s where I find the most beautiful and inaccessible women on earth. It feels like waiting for a bus at the docks. The expression is as plain as the look on her face. I don’t interest her, either. We’ve got so much in common it’s scary. I slump down through shoulders like fenceposts. The action reels me in, just a dream to rock my shipwreck.
Growing up like a scab, always getting picked on by those that should’ve known better. Bartender, just keep them coming until I lose count of the hours. Dodging my own false accusations. As time magnifies all illusions, I just stare at her collar. My imagination is out of control. My sense of humor is without doubt. My pencil soars away from the next tedious truth that is my nightmare. An artist trapped behind a twisted smirk.
“They‘ll never know,” and toss the tears back; all they care about is who said what to who. The comparisons simply explode. Even a black hole attracts light. Speaking of, and believing not. No one really thinks like this, do they? From the very beginning it’s been a race to the end. The cerebral vortex. The medusa oblongata. I can roll the offences off my tongue like toilet paper.
From the inside it all seems like a comedy. The conclusion has been drawn, and yet I still don’t understand where it all went wrong. Anything but crappy music. I do appreciate that someone out there needs to cheer, and that she’s got space there for me to stick my meat; but does that mean that I need to be so needy?
Chapter 2
to the end of the earths
BAFFALOED
Bone tired. My heart pounds like a sleepy alarm. The strain of rising reminds me of the springs of my mattress. Buttress the doors before another change of opinions. As much backbone showing as a broken twig. Hot, sensual, wet day-dreams waste away in my rocking head. Nothing is sticking except the sinking. Below the blades I’ll sing like an arched arrow. My groin groans like a spring sapling. My closed eyes present a larger than life view of her penetrating stare. My hoverfeet test out the strength of sunken floorboards.
Unable to rise to any persuasion. The weight of seeing myself fast asleep on the warm soft belly of mother earth. There’s a message heard to those in tune with the chirping. “Good luck”, they bade me as I tried to grasp why I’d even want to leave.
The road out is a lot longer than the one that just circles. I took everything that I own and put it on wheels so I could watch it spin itself into a bowl to hold my dreams of rising. Leaving her afraid that that much love could destroy. The tragic thing is that I also understood. I know enough about love to know that when it’s over there’s enough suction to strip the feathers off any songbird.
Two people enter each other. The mutual consent escalates until it’s one with the universe. Content in the spotlight of my fantasy. This diet has enabled me to feast my imagination. Satisfied with instability. The Buddha was right when he said that without YES there is no NO.
A warm, salt-water nest. Asleep on the crucifix. Humming along to the hymns. Really turned on by her space. The future looks like the past playing in reverse. I have learned a great many things, but none as important as the following: The only thing we’ve produced is our trust, the rest is just clutter. Shell shocked at the inception.
TOMBHORROR
Driving by the tree-line. A connection is made deep inside, deep in the past; deep in the present. The inner child has accepted the adult, and allowed him to grow in his own eyes. I’m blooming in the shelter of my automobile as I race away from an honorable life to chase the unknown. A calm voice consoles my momentum.
The bare mountains speak of the venerability shared by all living creatures. It’s simply foolish to assume that we humans are alone in the sharing of concern. There’s no doubt here, those skinned mountains stubble grows slow as slow. What can outlast dust? Without hesitation: We are lost in the past.
Like a giant, I’ll place each foot triumphantly on a mountain range and piss rivers to flood the valleys. Spring is in the air that I blow out of puffed lungs.