dont lie to me

And dont think this is my journal...is it?

Whatever... can you even pay attention

I have your attention

Gone to some distant thought about measuring up.

Measuring up to him, to her expectations....to what you thought you could suck out of this life

Settling...settling....settling....that is your job

Your role on this planet is to settle for whatever they give you. And always complain when they take something away.

After settling, your job is to half-ass it. Saving energy is something you know all-about.

SAve energy says Mrs. Krabopple....and I will save energy with my ass on the couch, remote control in hand, potato chips and beer within reach..

I save energy when I sit in a machine that goes a mile a minute.

I save energy with my ELECTRIC CAN OPENER.

I still have nightmares about this ridiculous device and I wonder what kind of lazy fuck my mom was to keep one of these in the kitchen.

Speaking of journals, people are liars. All of you lie through your teeth until you hate yourselves.

Stop lying and stop the passive aggressive remarks.

Diary of a wimpy kid I suppose.

This one rhymes

I’m taking each moment as it comes

But my moments are riddled with obsession

My thoughts are the sounding of drums

By a child with little discretion

I hesitate to say that I’m ailing

But these thoughts evidence many wounds

A mind cut by its numerous failings

And unsure of a future that looms

I can play for myself a sweet song

And vow yet again I’ll improve

But this old brain, just as clever, has caught on

And taunts me to make the first move

It’s been 6 years and I feel just as lost

And the drumming I cannot abate

A great life, on schedule to take off

Now a shuttle from runway to gate

Beliefs and emotion, they dictate my time

And though friends may be a quick fix

When the lights go down, reemerges my mind

And it deals in well-sharpened sticks

So for now, here I am, putting thoughts to a page

But soon I’ll emerge from my cave

To a world I hate where self-esteem takes the stage

In the tragedy of “Master and Slave”

They say, to succeed, that first one must fail

So I really don’t know what I’m worth

But until the winds of change hit my sail

I will shuffle my feet through this earth

the flaws of thought

My brain sucks. My brain is so bad, it recognizes that it is broken itself.

If my macintosh told me every day, "Im a shitty computer" I would believe it.

Fuck these fuckin walls. And fuck the people on the other side of them.

What is this compassion bullshit we all preach when deep down we hate each other.

We are stuck in a world full of sensitive, egotistical, annoying, predictable fuckin fucktards.

I don't want people to be better than me, but I want them to be less annoying.

and I want the right to murder a person or two on my way to work.

Compassion: what a crock of bologna. People just pretend and pretend and then go home and bitch and moan to anyone who will listen.

People, according to Kepler's law of planetary motion, are not where they want to be in life. Either too old, too ugly, too fat, too poor, too much themselves.

The shear laziness of people knows no limits. A laziness that leads us to waste our lives in front of LCD monitors, stuck in traffic chasing the one thing that seems to add dignity to our meaningless existence: money.

Oh how I despise this fucking currency. Why must our existence revolve like Einstein's law of relativity, around the quantity of local currency that we posses.

This family can fly to Poland, but this family never will. You can eat steak and potatoes, but they will have rice all week. You will die of malnutrition but they will tip the attractive waitress 30 Euros so that they can feel like winners.

it is insanity, and their is nothing that can be done at this point.

Call me an old-fashioned guy, but....

I can spot a knock off with my eyes closed

I can smell a salesman a mile away

And you can too...

so for the sake of saving time, let's cut to the quick.

I am in the business of writing poetry that assists me in gathering my thoughts and encouraging myself to pursue my ambitions.

Some write because they like the art of it and they wish to please the audience. I keep the audience in mind, but the poetry is for me. And maybe I'll get a shloob from Justin every time (I think its Justin), but I welcome it. I hope you write, "this poem sucked" and I respond, "suck a dick" and I bet life will go on.

I have met some of the most sensitive, fragile people... and it disgusts me how much they care about really stupid shit.

People think they've seen it all. But they've only seen television. People think they are veterans at the game of life, but they've always lived in one place. People think they've faced adversity, but they haven't.

Adversity is real pain. Adversity is lasting pain. Adversity does not entail acceptance, it entails surviving intact. Finding your feet again after the brute force of life knocks you on your ass.

I have tasted adversity. I have witnessed adversity. I have seen that it leaves a mark as deep as it wishes. Sometimes adversity leaves us in a coma, and sometimes it leaves us dead.

Love seems to be this focus of so many. Everyone wants the acceptance and companionship of another person. Everyone seems so desperate to sacrifice so many of their liberties for a friend they can have sex with.

But I don't know love, and my criticism is often unwelcome, and my poetry is just my train of thoughts, and my life is a story of .......(to be continued)

why do I think Im so great?

why do I hold on to these fantasies?

I know they give me hope, but why do I believe them.

I think I believe in a future michael herold

FY fucking eye: If you are skeptical that michael herold can change then please don't read, cause I do believe.

Those that don't believe humans can make major changes are very much a part of the problem and not the solution.

The solution is change. Internal change.

Problem solving, planning, and ACTION.

I will change. I know why I do what I do. I fall for the same tricks, but I am recognizing them. I am confirming and recognizing. I am catching myself. I am seeing myself.

I am looking objectively at my own life even though I let emotion move me.

But emotion is what moves us all. Lifelong relationships are BUILT on emotions, and thus hence as a matter of fucking fucking fact we are emotional creatures.

Here. right here is a man. not a kid. not a kid. An adult. A human who can hold a conversation with world leaders and doctors and scientists. A man who can show a classy woman a good time. A man who understands government, economics, history, medicine and language.

I have a long way to go. and I see many traps ahead that I may very well fall into.

but the story of this man is far from over....

Youth

The street where Jake lived was a cul-de-sac. A quiet place, purposely far enough outside the city so that it would be safer. The lawns there were always green, at least in the spring and summer. There were so many trees! In October, leaves of every color would cover the ground in piles. The neighbors used rakes and leaf blowers to pile them up, and fill black plastic bags with them. Some leaves that stuck around long enough would get to stay all winter, covered in snow. Every morning there was enough snow that Dad would need to get out the snow blower and clear the driveway before leaving for work. The snow banks on the side of the driveway made for great caves and snow forts. The house, with its purple-red brick walls, rose behind the snow forts like a castle. Its windows were always lit up, and during the holidays, there was always something in each window: a candle, a wreath, a bow. Spring came slowly with rain. The family would stay inside and watch TV in sweaters. The sun room was always comfortable in March and April showers. The windows were all around, from floor to ceiling, and you could see the rain streaking down the window pains in the dim, cloudy April light.

One April morning, the sun was out so Jake decided to go out in the yard to play. He took out his set of Jarts, and his nurf guns, and his croquet set. The grass in the front yard was still sopping wet and spongy. Jake set up the Jarts target first, then he carefully counted out 10 paces to mark off the line to throw from. The grass was tall, and his shoes and the bottoms of the pant legs of his jeans were getting wet. Jake was 5 years old and an only child, but he always found ways to enjoy a Thursday morning, or a Sunday afternoon. The first round of Jarts was not good; all his throws were substantially too long, and some of them were rolling down into the neighbor’s yard. Jake collected the Jarts and walked back up to his throwing line. “Maybe if I throw them higher in the air”? Jake gripped a jart by the tail and swung it around and around in a windmill motion. With a yell, he released the jart at the apex of its swing. How high it flew! The jart whistled, like a firework, sailing across the blue sky. Blowing with the wind, the jart soared past the yard and past the sidewalk, landing in the street. As the jart rolled down the street and towards the sewer opening, Jake stood and stared for a second, then he took off running into the street after the jart. It rolled all the way to the opening of the sewer with Jake a few steps behind. Suddenly a pair of shoes jumped in front of the sewer, and a pair of hands scooped up the jart. “Is this yours?” She was wearing a jean skirt and a purple t-shirt with pink bows on it. Her hair was tied loosely in two pigtails. “Yes, it’s mine. Do you live here?” Jake was feeling shy. Ashlyn was smiling just a little “I just moved in to that house across the street” “What’s your name” “My name is Ashlyn , but my friends call me Ash” “Do your parents let you play outside a lot?” “I go out when I want to, as long as I’m home for dinner at 6:00” “Well nice to meet you Ashlyn , I’m going to finish my Jarts game now” Jake turned and started walking back towards his own yard. Ashlyn watched after him. Jake stopped, feeling a bit like he was being watched, he turned back to Ashlyn and said “Do you want to come play Jarts with me Ashlyn ?” Ashlyn stood there stretching her arms downward, holding her left wrist with her right hand. “Ummm... I don’t know how to play jarts” “It’s easy, I can show you how, come on, my yard is right there, and you said you can play outside as much as you want.” “OK I guess I will come; I’ll watch you play” Ashlyn followed Jake to his yard and she watched him play Jarts and Nurf guns and croquet until it was time to go home.

***

The kitchen table was cluttered with flowers. Jars of stuff. Toaster. Butter dish. Outside, a red hummingbird feeder was weighed down by the perch of several finches and the occasional opportunistic squirrel. Ashlyn and her mom sat on the couch, finishing the last few pages of one of her favorite stories. “And Streganona ate all the Spagetti in town... The end”. Ashlyn bounced off her mother’s lap and walked to the table, climbing on top of a chair, she reached for a slice of bagel sitting on a plate. As she delicately buttered the bagel, Ashlyn asked “Mom, did you know there is a boy my age who lives across the street?” “No, I didn’t know that. Which house does he live in” “He lives in the purple brick house with the big yard. His name is Jake. Today I met him on the sidewalk, and he let me watch him play with his toys.” “And did you get to play too?” “I could have. Jake asked me to. But I was scared.” Ashlyn’s mom picked her up and sat her down on her lap. “Mom, would you brush my hair?” She took a small purple brush from the coffee table next to the tv remotes and started gently brushing Ashlyn’s thin hair. “Ashie, I signed you up for swimming lessons. Your brother is quite the fish in the pool. We’re going to go up to Bemidgi next month for his swim meet. Maybe you and your sister can tag along.” “I don’t want to take swim lessons” “It will be good for you Ash. You can meet some kids your same age so you have more people to play with in this new neighborhood” “But I already have a friend” “Who is your friend?” “Jake.” “But you only just met him, there’s lots of other kids out there who you can have fun playing with.” Ashlyn twisted in her mom’s lap so that she was laying on her back, looking up at her mom. Ashlyn’s hair, straight, smooth and thin, cascaded gently around the couch. “Mom I like Jake, and he is my friend.”

***

Penis

Mikhail opened the door and looked out into the hall. The only light emanated from a single bulb, suspended from the hall ceiling by a chain. There was silence. The sound of a TV, fuzzy. The sound of a rat inside the wall. The air was cold, and the fur jacket he wore was beaded with specs of ice. Mikhail’s breath shone in the air, and fell to the ground, dissipating. Turning back to the room, he faced Vlade and Schovik who were still seated at the table. Spread between them on the table was 1 billion Rubles, 2 revolvers, a document and a pen. Mikhail stood in the doorway, afraid, and also confident. He had been in this situation before. Mikhail was 23 years old as of last week. He had a scruffy black beard (if you could call it a beard). His nose was always running. The thing he was most proud of was his smile. Perfect, white teeth, each one aligned exactly as it should be. He was also proud of the custom built AK47 which rested under his arm, and the tailored body armor he wore under his jacket. There was no heat in the room, or anywhere in the building. The last of the heating oil had been used 2 years ago.
Mikhail walked up to Vlade and extended his hand. Vlade looked up at him, expressionless. Mikhail waited there his hand feeling heavy, yet holding it there, confident. Vlade was motionless. There was the sound of a slight dripping from a faucet somewhere to Mikhail’s left. Schovik looked on, twisting his ring around his finger. Heavy snow was falling outside the room’s small window.
Vlade stood up and grasped Mikhail’s hand. “Consider it done” A thin smile appeared, showing Mikhail’s white, perfect teeth. “A deal that will make you rich, my friend”. Schovik took the document and signed it, emphatic. Vlade swept the heap of money into a canvas bag under the table. Folding the document into his jacket pocket, Mikhail pivoted and walked towards the door, and out into the snow.

***

Travis was 19. One year after graduating from North High School in Hilliard, Ohio, Travis was completely broke. Ohio State had refused his application for admission, and the Panera Bread store where he’d been working was being closed for the winter due to inadequate heating oil. A lot of businesses were struggling, but Panera had been reliable, at least for a year. Everyone wanted to go to college. The public colleges had a special arrangement with the government where they were given permission to create heat using plutonium fission. But Ohio State was only taking on 50 new students per quarter, and Travis was up against 595,000 other applicants.
Travis laid on the cot in his tent, shivering. There was a group of people outside huddling together for warmth. Travis was alone, thinking. “Where are my parents”? Travis’ parents had walked west looking for wood 6 months ago. That was the last time he had seen them. “I can’t stay here like this... The rent is due tomorrow.... I have no money...” Unwelcome. That’s how Travis felt. As though he were completely disconnected from whatever story the world happened to be telling. An extinct creature, waiting for mortality or chance to extinguish his very cold and quite inadequate flame. Soldiering on through hunger and cold....
An idea! There was one organization, besides Ohio State, that had permission to generate heat. One that was still accepting all applicants. Travis tightened his jacket, hoisted his pack, and walked out of the tent, into the wind. He left one flap of the 1st level tent door open, a gesture used to indicate the tent was available to the next interested resident.
The recruiting office was dimly lit, but very warm. Shuffling through the entryway, then the anti chamber, and then the lobby, Travis shed his jacket, hat and gloves, and left his pack in an open locker. The lobby of the recruiting office was lined with metal desks, each occupied by a petite girl in tight shorts and a thin green tank top. Lines of men waited at each desk. There were probably about 50 people in the room. 5 girls and 45 men waiting in line. Travis noticed signs above the desks indicating the lines were organized by age. He got into the line for 18-22.
“Why are you here, Travis?” The girl at the desk was probably 40 but her body looked 25. Her blond hair was tied in a loose ponytail. “I’m here because I want to join The Organization” “And Why do you want to join?” Travis hesitated “I want to fight the Parchynists” “I don’t believe you, tell me the real reason” “I want to serve my Community” “You’re lying again! Don’t you know we can measure the truth of your statements? Every time you speak I’m looking at a percentage probability that you believe what you’re saying is true. Don’t waste my time. If you’re going to lie to me, get out of this line and go back out to the old” “OK! I am losing hope out there in the tent field! I just want in; I’ll say anything you want me to say, just don’t send me back out there to shrivel up and die. My parents haven’t been seen in 6 months. I have nothing. My job disappeared. I have no siblings, no relatives, and no one even knows I left my tent. All my friends went to Ohio State and they’re not allowed to leave the secure perimeter. The Organization is my last chance”
The girl looked at Travis for about 30 seconds, then she touched her ear, listened for a moment, and addressed Travis in a softer tone.”Your pack and your cold gear are on a plane to Tennessee. A sanitized corpse was placed in your tent, and your tent in the tent field has been shredded. The Panera location where you worked has been ‘looted’ and all remaining evidence of your existence has been destroyed. Walk through the door to my left and you will receive your instructions”

***

Mikhail’s Embraer XIV jet lifted off silently from the snow covered plain. The dim lights of St Petersburg were visible from the window, thought there was heavy fog generated by the temperature difference between the jet and the outside air. He pulled the contract from his jacket pocket. Schovik’s signature was the last step in his bid to gain control of Russia’s most powerful resource. Wood. On the planet, there were a total of 300 acres of forest left. With the contribution of Schovik’s family holdings, Mikhail was in control of 200 of the 300 existing acres. This all came at a staggering cost. One billion Rubles, a 15% stake in the company, and guaranteed immunity for Schovik, Vlade, and their 62 living descendants. The death, by freezing, murder, or starvation of any of these 62 would void the agreement and forfeit 500 million of the billion Rubles.
It was getting hot in the jet cabin. Such a pleasurable feeling. Mikhail took off his coat and handed it to one of the attendants. “Janice, would you pour me a Vodka c’ Apple. I love the way you make it” Janice was one of 23 women on the flight. Mikhail traveled with an entourage of all women. The pilot was female, his driver was female, and all his inner circle of advisers were female. Janice was a master of sever ancient and modern forms of martial arts, but she was not with Mikhail as a bodyguard. By his own preference Mikhail always conducted business negotiations alone, and without backup or protection. He liked the thrill of sensing danger, and the challenge of being the only one responsible for his own security. He preferred to out smart rather than out gun. Janice arrived with the Vodka c’ Apple. An expensive and rare drink reserved only for the privileged few. Vodka was abundant and cheap (potatoes grew easily in the cold), but the apples were precious and rare. 1 of Mikhael’s 200 acres was an apple orchard. The bottom edge of Janice’s blue skirt brushed against Mikhail’s shoulder as she delivered the drink. “Is there anything else I can get for you Mickey” “No, thank you. This Vodka c’ Apple is excellent. You are such a talented mixologist! Katya, would you put on a record? Let’s enjoy this flight. If you girls start dancing, I’ll join you in a moment. Lacey, turn up the heat in the cabin a bit. I want to sweat!”

***

Travis was jolted awake by an electric current pulsing into his metal bunk-bed. A silent alarm, it felt like a pulse directly flicking on a switch in his brain. Travis jumped into action, somersaulting off the bunk, hitting the concrete running, swiftly down the hallway and out onto the airstrip in the middle of the base. The air was warmer in Afghanistan than it was in Hilliard, but still too cold to survive without proper clothing. 6 other young men fell into place in line next to him, fully clothed and both physically and mentally ready to act. The Organization mandated that all employees be fully clothed and wearing shoes at all times, even while sleeping. The helicopter became visible on the airstrip as the active camo was lifted. Travis and his men ran up the loading ramp and into the helicopter, and they lifted off quickly, the thin blades beating at 7,000 RPM, but making no perceptible sound. They flew low over the mountains, invisible and inaudible. After a 5 minute flight, the target appeared in front of them: an indistinguishable bump in the desert landscape, circled by green light in their internal visual display. Travis jumped out of the helicopter, feet first, and landed on the mound with a small thud (the aircraft was flying about 5 feet above ground). The ground looked like sand, but it felt like concrete. Travis eased forward, taking small steps, his hands held in front of him. His visual display was indicating that they were perhaps 10 meters or less away from the target. Suddenly his hand felt cold steel, though all he could see was air and sand, Travis knew this was the target, Priority VI. A pulse from his electric rifle quickly disabled the door, and a well placed kick revealed the way into the lair, and 30 bandits clothed in black, and a swarm of bullets headed his way...

***

Mikhail walked into the meeting, knowing this would be his finest hour. He was wearing a grey suit coat, leather gloves, and leather shoes. His custom AK47 hung loosely around his shoulder. “Dimitri! It’s been too long” “Mikhail, how are you friend? To what do I owe the pleasure of hosting you at this very early hour?” “Friend, I’m here for one reason only, and that is to relieve you of your command of this country” “You’re joking, again, always trying to keep me on my toes” “I am not joking, Dimitri. Your service as Premier has ended” “Nonsense!” “I have signed Affadavits from all the major stakeholders in this country appointing me as supreme leader, and I now own 51% of the land in Russia, 75% of the natural resources, and 95% of the uranium, plutonium, petroleum, and 100% of the Forrest.” Dimitri looked like someone had punched him in the stomach. “Dimitri, you can either step aside nicely, or I can make this hard on you. I have already anticipated every possible response you might have to our confrontation. Your immediate security personnel have no ammunition in their weapons. The peripheral security personnel have all been hired by me as of yesterday. The fuel has been siphoned from your car, your plane and your helicopter, all the phone lines to this building have been cut, and there is a plane hovering overhead disrupting all wireless communications and transmissions. Additionally, there is an explosive device in your jacket which will explode if I touch my right thumb to my right forefinger.” “I trusted you! Mikhail, how could you betray me?” “Dimitri, I will let you live as long as you agree to leave Russia immediately”...
The conversation was interrupted by an explosion. A grenade detonated steps away from where Mikhail and Dimitri were standing. Travis emerged from the smoke firing his electric rifle, pointed at Dimitri’s face. Lunging for cover, Dimitri’s jacket hit by the electric rifle, triggering the implanted explosive device and killing him instantly. Mikhail rolled to the side, making an evasive maneuver, spraying bullets from his AK47 in the direction of this mystery intruder. Travis was hit in the left eye, and twice in his left cheek, as he fell to the floor, he pulled the pin of a grenade. Mikhail, suddenly, realized this was something he had not planned for. The grenade detonated, obliterating Mikhail, Travis, and what was left of Dimitri.

Perspective

I am the whole world; within me dwells the lesser:
He who seeks but does not find,
He who questions and receives no answers,
He who attempts to change but cannot,
He who is futile in his solidarity,
He who is equally futile in community,
He who rages at the wrong,
He who preaches of the right,
He who pities himself,
Who pities others,
Who defines,
Who ceases to define,
Who mocks,
Who trembles,
Who falls,
Rises
Talks
Silences
Achieves meaning
Only to admit vanity
I the lesser dwell
As do others and no differently.

But

I am the whole world
From within, there I look out, upon myself,
I encompass, I transcend, I expand beyond infinity,
God could not contain me, the lives of billions
Could not surpass me, time could not define me,
Causality itself could not dictate me.

I flow asynchronously,
I wax indefinitely,
I grow unconditionally,
I play as a child

Im not writing this for facebook

I have an idea

It involves my ego and the opinions of others

I hate other people because they don't see things the way I do

But I am stuck conforming to the broken minds of other people

My idea is that I become selfish like everyone else

That way I can dive head first into this backwards society

Why the sudden change of heart?

I suppose it has all finally clicked and now I can see the light.

I can see now why politics is a career

I can see why actors are our most celebrated individuals

I can finally see why people are idiots:

It is because they try so desperately to protect their fragile egoes

by judging others and misjudging themselves

If there is one true skill that we all possess, it is our ability to distract ourselves from the inadequacies of our lives. Our ability to have conversations that always flow perpendicular to what is really important. Our ability to think we are great at something that we probably suck balls at.

Life is not easy, nor do I think it should be. But all the compliments, the fluffy pillows, and the feel good movies have done nothing to improve the quality of MY life.

What is lacking in my life?

Hard work. Deep, honest relationships. And sound self-confidence.

The ego is everything. Everyday I straighten up my shrine. I burn a candle and place chocolates to placate the ego gods.

Yet everything that I will pursue in my life has been done already. I am just another cluster of carbon with unoriginal, selfish desires.

And as I write this and confront the meaningless of my pursuits.... I am forced to probe my ego to discover what makes me better than 7 billion people.

nothing makes me better.

But nothing makes them better either.

Fat

I see a lot of fat people. I have put on a few pounds myself.

Maybe these people should get more exercise. I know they hate it. I know they see exercise as a pain not worth suffering.

But they need to set their eyes on the prize. The prize is health. The prize is self-esteem.

The prize is NOT fleeting satisfaction from food. It's just food and we act like it is a source of true happiness. Even the skinny people go on and on about the delicious foods they've discovered.

The skinny people know deep down that food doesn't equate to happiness. The fat people are wrong to believe this.

The average folks like myself pretend like food isn't that important, even though we see how enticing it is.

The solution is a determination to not let food control one's life. And that starts with a diet.

NaNoWriMo Freewrite Practice #4 – Atomic Tom

            He was conceived on the shaft of an atomic bomb plummeting toward utopia with a singular intention: death. In the age of missiles, paradise on earth was but a dream, one that lasted in principle only as long as agreement was maintained between the people. Certainly therefore it was questionable that utopia actually ever existed. The distant outcrop of humans, remotely quarantined from the rest of the despicable race, comprised mankind’s great hope. It was the blood diamond of millennia of rivalry, enmity, backstabbing, betrayal, and death. And for a moment, it lingered, as the hopes and dreams of a thousand nations manifested on a solitary island absconded by the ocean, embracing it and protecting it like a crown jewel. Unreachable, the refugees had thought. Undetectable. Unconscionable. But as the atomic bomb fell through the bluest sky, the two hellbent, quixotic dreamers hanging on knew that they would lay waste to humanity’s greatest moment. And so they bore a child: Tom. Tom was the bomb. Both the medium and the message, form and function, the spawn of the end-times.

The people targeted below looked up at the screaming coming across the sky, the foregone conclusion that they had wished away unto denial. For a moment they believed they had reached the apex of human interrelational and societal achievement. And in that final moment of solace, when the cycles of life would turn back toward death and it was revealed to all that humanity truly had nothing worth hoping for, they saw the animals riding the nuclear missile, copulating, ecstatic. This ultimate image was seared into their retinas as they withered under the combustion of the mushroom cloud, and the people were all gone. A stroke of ejaculation timed to the masterstroke of misanthropy. Obliterated, they did not weep. And Tom, his wild conceivers a disseminated tuft of charred dust strewn upon the land, rose up from the ashes. In their death, he was life.

Tom knew none of the rituals of his precedent humans, nor even what other humans were, or what he was. He was effectively a cultural blank slate, biologically wired with proclivities he would require ages to comprehend now that science had been erased, entirely without historical knowledge or any understanding whatsoever except his own present experience and observations. But, though he did not know it, in spite of so many years of discovery, education, advancement, mastery, and control, as the humans populated and depopulated the planet, none of it mattered because in this moment it was all wiped out, in this moment of his birth. He knew nothing of the other humans across the oceanic expanse who had sent his mother’s maiden missile arcing down upon utopia and endowing him with the chance of life.

Sprung up within radiation, he became fully formed the moment the bomb struck, and his first memory was the great enveloping of the past that stretched out and coated the sky, eclipsing the sunlight as it grew so terrible and mysterious and beautiful. Tom’s first breath was of this ominous dust, and it filled him with a sadness that he did not understand as he absorbed and oxidized his ancestors and their dreams. He swallowed their happiness and smiles with his first gulp, his mouth chock-full of their stories. He drank their wonder, and he excreted their misery.

In this squalor he made his first choice, which would come to define his existence in this strange land: he stepped forward. He felt what he did not know to be particles of bones sift and crunch under his heavy feet. He was naked, and the humans that once existed cut him as he walked, reminding him of something he never knew. It was a brave step because the atomic cloud had completely overtaken the sun, and it was pitch black. He did not have faith, just naiveté. Or maybe just nothing. He was not inhibited or ashamed or embarrassed or afraid. He just was, emboldened by the hopes of the dead that he inhaled, inspiration at its purest.

Tom did not know what to make of what he perceived around himself. He had no language and no basis for discerning what he saw, heard, tasted. But he was conscious. He had a sense of self. He was aware of stimuli. The world spread out before him as a laboratory to discover. He had no sense of purpose necessarily, nor did he lack one. He simply was. He knew fire and ash and darkness and his nameless body, and from these reference points he moved forward as he made his decision and took his first step.

In a single step he traveled through the nostalgic grief of a first day of school, the dust of a mother’s smile as she and her wife send off their intersexual child from the door to an orange school bus at the curb. The women, arms interlocked, hands clasped, treasure the baby steps of their child as he skips toward the shuttle. A new beginning, hope, and anxiety all wrapped into a memory of possibility. The success of a people, distilled into this first grader’s gait. A post-sexual, post-gender, post-stigma, post-discrimination society: the quintessential state of sociocultural liberalism. He steps onto the bus, greeted by a firm but kind driver with a symbolic destination: the sustained education of utopia’s first native generation. Precious cargo in an orange vessel, ripe to be picked and squeezed, the bitter juice sweet. The salvation of centuries of hatred. The women watch as he is carried away toward school, but first to pick up other dreams along the road. The women kiss. Their ash scrambled further under Tom’s foot, he would never know their triumph.

Tom inhaled a lonely widow. She sits on the edge of her bed, still. Childless and bereft, she looks past the floor into the land’s bowels, unrooted, unanchored, drifting. Her thoughts ebb and flow in the port of experience, buoyed by the rush in and bobbing with the undercurrent. She remembers a distant planet where love danced. Freedom. She swirled on the floor with her infinite husband. A grin, etching across her mind’s eye, shuttered. The exposure is too great to bear, and she rests, exhausted from the vision going back. She places her hand on his chest, tremulous as he dips her down, his hand supporting her under the nape, as in a heartbeat she descends to mere inches below the floor, her blood electric and her eyes thunder. She gazes up in her memory, his eyes uncolored and black and deep and endless. The dream washes over her, and in that moment she is paralyzed on the bed, stricken. Tom breathed her in and her bristling feeling permeated his veins as she was transported into his bloodstream with her love run afoul. Tom exhaled, never wiser, love lilting, extinguished. The gravity of her vitality dissipated toward the expansive atomic cloud, the end of hope.

Tom inherited a legacy of crises forced from their many moments through the annals of human history. All for naught. At once that he senselessly proliferated the waste laid to the emotion that seemed so meaningful, he denied its validity. It never existed, and it never mattered. His unconscious muse, he carried forward unwitting, insensitive to the pains taken by those who came before, the unconscious culmination of trying so hard but never succeeding to signify. He was the death knell of hope, further propelling life and all its turmoil apart, cutting its very particles with the gnashing of his teeth, separating its molecules with his breath, smashing it with his step, decimating it with his conception. Atomic Tom moved forward, the progeny of animals fucking purposelessly on a convoy of destruction, rendering meaninglessness even moreso. He was the blind putting forth to the fire, life from death, meaningless, searching, aspiring upon inspiration. The simultaneous end and beginning of nothing and hope.

The Box

jump in shower

chill in shower

im showering

ive done this before

I've done this most days of my life.

im on autopilot

how do i turn autopilot off?

how do i get outside myself?

how do i stop believing all the bullshit i believe?

where is the wake-up call?

why i am unwilling to try anything new at this point?

I should move to cuba and sell apples

that's outside the box

im tired of this box

white, black, asian, latino.... where are the green people? where are the neanderthals?

I am over the IPADs and the celebrities and the politics...

I am uninterested in the BMWs with built in Blu-ray

Fuck the stock market, and c'mon with the facebook

If Nicaragua is like that, and we are like this, then what's it like selling fruit in Havana?

there is no box... just my weak fuckin brain

NaNoWriMo Freewrite Practice #3 – The Business of Construction

Logan is a young child culturing a talent in construction. It’s not an inherited endeavor, at least as far as he knows; his dad is in the business of investments. And unlike playing the piano, it is not something he told his mom that he wanted to do. He just finds himself developing a special skill at it, without consciously even knowing he’s getting good at it. In fact, he is still not aware of his superpower, but it’s growing inside of him. He even knows what all of the necessary supplies are. He doesn’t accept contract labor; it’s all internal work. An inside job.

Today, Logan starts his first project, unknowingly. His unwitting hands assemble the proper proportion of concrete and water inside of a big tumbling truck that slowly turns to keep it all motile. He keeps a dowel in his back pocket. He does pushups on a regular basis in order to preserve his stamina and ensure his lifting strength. Squats help too. He doesn’t exercise specifically for the purpose of construction, because he doesn’t really know that he’s in that business. Rather, it happens while he’s playing with the other kids in preschool or interacting with his brother and parents back home. Dashes, lunges, pull-ups, all unintentionally serving his cultivation.

It’s a grueling process as Logan tumbles the concrete and prepares it for molding. The Texas sun sits on his shoulders and turns him pink. His arms tire from the constant circular motion, repetitive and interminable, but he continues, unawares. He opens the chute and begins to lay his first foundation. This will be a short wall, just tall enough to prevent a small human from getting in. He has already spent the past few years digging up an encircling moat, preparing for this moment. Because one day it would come. And it has.

The tiny children return to the preschool building after a spat of manicured field-wandering. A few of them, including Logan, stop at a corner of a long hallway, behind some doors. Scott and Stephanie and her twin giggle, and a few other girls. Stephanie has a crush on Scott, and the girls dare him to kiss her. Logan looks on as a specter. And they kiss. A simple peck on the lips. Canoodlers. They squirm and flap around, laughing. What a thing. It’s new territory for the whole bunch of children, such a risk. And Logan looks at them.

The area that Logan has dug out for the foundation is not so wide currently, just a couple of feet. He tests the bed of dirt, where he has removed the living grass to make way for the viscous, gray concrete. He picks up a shredded blade of grass that a worm crawls next to. He coerces the worm to crawl onto the grass and then tosses it and the grass a few yards away, outside of the moat. As he lets the concrete seep slowly into place, the construction project before him transitions from a machination into a beginning. As he looks at the girls laughing, he kneels down to ground-level and draws the dowel from his pocket. Its point threatens the solidifying magma at his mercy before him. He turns the dowel slowly, examining the shiny silver while Stephanie leans in slowly. He deliberates and brings the dowel into contact with the rough surface of the lain lava. With a gesture, he flattens it. There must not be any imperfections if this structure is to hold. He looks up and sees Scott render a smile of exhilaration and glee, just before the moment of connection. Logan carefully smoothes the foundation, preparing it for the bricks to come. Stephanie and Scott touch lips. Logan places the first brick. Everyone giggles. He lays another.

Like a fatalistic domino set, the bricks fall into place one after another, leading Logan along. He does not choose their assembly; they assemble themselves by his hand. One by one, the beginning transitions, growing. Soon Logan sits in the shadow of his nascent project. The initial step is not yet complete, but already it protects him from the scorcher in the sky, which is setting. The completed section of the lain bricks casts a long shadow. He stands to admire his work and the pace of its development, but as he looks upon it he realizes that he knows not what he is doing or why. Suddenly confused, he turns. He sees the former moat, now filled in with gray ooze, like a driveway by way of which one could approach him with a tricycle.

Logan walks out of the beleaguering shadow to the foot of a shorter stacked section of bricks. The sun is not so hot as it lowers, and Logan sees his shadow stretched out at odds before him. It is long and sharp, piercing the ground upon which it dances, pointing away from the warm sun. The children scamper back into the classroom to look at the pet butterflies held inside of a plastic cage. They are not much in the way of pets as they simply flit about, trapped within their transparent plastic panels. He becomes sad when he sees the butterflies or thinks of them. They will die, snuffed within oily walls, creatures with the rarest ability of flight restricted to a square foot, beset by another species they don’t comprehend. Logan imagines freeing them, but he fears the repercussions of such a daring move.

And so Logan turns back to the bricks, daydreaming of butterflies and their liberation. Just a dream, never to be realized. In his semi-waking state, in a daze wrought by the burden of perceived impossibility, his hands caress a new brick. It’s fortified, rough, and heavy, like a weight, but strong. And they will be impregnable together. He sets another brick down and continues in his unconscious construction. Other children laugh in the distance. He builds, more and more quickly. In a wanton fury, he stacks as dreams die. One after another. One by one. Mortar, smooth, stack, advance.

In this manner of suspension Logan expends an unmeasured amount of time that he is unaware of, until one day the sun rises, but he does not see it. He lies in the shadow of his construct, completed. He faces away from laughter, behind the bricks. The smell of hardened concrete soaks into his skin. He forgets. He sits, waiting for the future. All around him, for an expanse that drives into eternity, he has forged his premiere construction, and what an achievement it is. Through jaded eyes, sensitive to the sun and now better suited for a slightly darker climate, he observes his accomplishment. Somewhere in the back of his mind, at some fundamental level, he must acknowledge what he has created, but consciously he has no awareness. A kind of smile of sets in, like an incipient infection. It spreads across his face. He has built a wall.

Freewrite 3

Jared hung from the rafters. Swinging slowly from side to side, the rope tightened around his neck, cutting into his skin. He tried with one final effort to take a breath, but his strength failed. His brain, screaming from lack of oxygen, flicked off. And then, in an instant there was nothing. No color, no sound, smell, taste, texture. He was not conscious of anything.
Two months ago, Jared had been studying hard, preparing for his MCAT exam. He was 27, and finally ready to quit trying to make a living playing guitar and pursue a real career after living on couches and in basements for the last few years. The med school thing seemed like the only logical choice. Jared lived in Parkview, Maryland in a two bedroom apartment in a brick building on 12th street. He spent most days working bagging groceries at Kroger, and most nights either drinking wine and talking with friends or writing poetry. Life was good, though perhaps not what he had dreamed he’d be doing at 27.
Jared’s body hung, limp and colorless from the thick rope. His bare feet were about 18 inches from the floor of the carport. There was silence. Stillness. And then a light flicked on and Jared was suddenly conscious! Though he could tell it was not his mind that was causing him to be conscious. He knew who he was, but he wasn’t sure where he was. He felt that there was motion taking place all around him, like the sensation of being held up by air. Jared wanted to speak then, but he could sense the absence of a mouth (or even a body) with which to exercise that impulse. Though he couldn’t yet say that he was in a “place”, Jared began to perceive that he had been here before. Slowly, Jared became conscious of the presence of other beings in his immediate vicinity. He sensed a motion, as if all of them, thousands were funneling into some narrow passage. Jared wanted to know where "everyone" way going. As he felt this, his intention propelled him towards the funnel and he began to perceive a strengthening, perhaps magnetic pull. Swirling through the funnel, there was dizziness, and suddenly an awareness. An awareness of a Presence, something with more weight that the other moving bodies. Spinning free of the funnel, Jared felt something like clear cold balls of silvery glass all around him. He couldn't see any light, but he felt a warmth that might accompany sunlight.
The car's tires squealed and Jared gripped the cracked leather passenger seat. It was 3 AM and they were out for a joyride. A friend had proposed it, but Jared had been too weak to say no. The engine roared, and they hurtled down the 97 freeway in the direction of Annapolis. The man in a drivers seat was someone Jared knew well. Stephen, a blond haired thirty something kid, a frat brother from college. Stephen said “Jared, are you ready for this?” Jared was too terrified to speak. At the end of the 97 freeway, near Edgewater Beach, across from Lee airport, there is a bridge that is only halfway complete. Jared and Stephen were on their way to drive off that bridge. The speedometer read 110MPH. “Stephen, maybe we should stop and get something to eat?” “We just ate before we came. This will all be over in 20 minutes.” “But I’m hungry. Waffle House is open 24 hours; there’s one in Crownsville” “I promise you in 20 minutes you won’t feel hungry anymore” “But I want to eat now. Can’t we stop?” There was a pause. A hint of red and blue light flashed in the side view mirror. Stephen had his right foot flat on the floor - the accelerator was fully depressed, and their speed climbed from 110MPH to 120MPH to 125MPH. A siren became audible, then a second set of red and blue lights appeared alongside the first. Screeching around a bend in the freeway, Stephen and Jared came face to face with pure fear. A wall of police cars, lights flashing and sirens blaring, and what looked like a strip with spikes stretched across the road about 50 ft in front of the police line. Stephen hesitated a moment, and then, his right foot still pressing the accelerator flat against the ground, he angled the car for a collision with maximum force with the center of the line of police cars. Then Jared reacted. Twitching from his state of shocked paralysis, Jared violently took hold of the wheel and turned it a full 180 degrees to the right. The car swung to the right, flipped over the left font tire, and entered a barrel roll, about 100ft in front of the spike strip. Time seemed to freeze. The sensation of temporary weightlessness seemed to create an erie silence. Crash! - The car finally landed, and came to rest on its roof, about 25 ft in front of the police line. Stephen’s body hung, blood soaked, suspended by his safety belt. Jared was loosing consciousness, suffering from a severe concussion but only minimally bleeding, mainly from his arms and legs.
The cold, silvery balls of clear glass seemed to carry him, like a stream with a current, into the Presence of a being whose size and shape he could not perceive, but whose greatness he could immediately feel. Jared tried to cover himself with something, but the glass would not stick together, and for that matter it was not clear what part of “Him” he might be able to hide. Jared heard a voice, speaking slowly, quietly, from the midst of the Presence. “Jared ...why are you here?” “I think that I have died, “ Jared mouthed, blubbered “I feel bodyless” “Yes I know, but why are you here” “The glass balls brought me here, through the vortex. It seems like everything is coming here. Where am I?” There was silence for a moment. There was a sense of rapid and swirling changes in temperature and brightness, though nothing was truly visible. The voice said “Come a bit closer, and I will tell you a story”

Americans

Veins flowing thick with lust and greed
Holding fast to a morality
That says "get what you can, when you can"
"Don't ever get less than the next man."

Incapable of contentment, "no satisfaction"
Destined to wander the earth in abandon
Meting out the days of their lives
Counting their money and hiding their sighs.

Heavy Branches

I helped chop down the tree
its branches were magnificent
vibrating with sap
I felt it shudder under our axes
we did it as a family.

The tree used to sing to me at night
rustling its leaves and waving its branches
the tree was so tall,
that now there is lumber all around
it reaches past the bounds of our yard.

I went out alone and burned as much as I could
screaming into the fire,
in the morning the soles of my feet were black
from wandering in the ashes

But the load hadn't lightened.

It's been some time now.
lately I've been stacking the wood
in a shed near our home
I go out everyday and make orderly piles
and I haven't rekindled anything lately
I don't want to hear the sap hissing anymore.

NaNoWriMo Freewrite Practice #2 – Incur Fear

            Logan deathly fears dogs. On account of a childhood event. He goes out to play on the swing that hangs from the big willow in his front lawn. He doesn’t know the tree is called a willow, he is that young. But it has green, spirally tendrils that scrape the air, calmly. The wind picks them up and the looming tree swoons and twirls its willowy fingers around. Logan surveys the tree before approaching it. He sniffs but only smells his own sweat. His mom hasn’t found a deodorant that works for him yet, so he just hopes the other kids don’t pick up on it. But how could they not? He can’t smell the tree, and so he gazes. The willow’s fingers toss up and about, scraping the breeze, and they could catch him. But he just wants to play on the swing.

            And then the right moment arises, when the willows’ arms are distracted by their heights, and Logan dashes. Under a blue sky. He doesn’t heed the ground as his feet propel him forward, his chin up, admiring the great blue that is overcome by the dark green willow spirals, floating above. And that means he’s under the tree, and it can’t reach him now. And he’s arrived at the swing. It’s a wooden one, just a slat of wood. A rope dangles from a branch and comes to a knot through the middle and underneath the slat, like a thread connecting the dead wood to the living tree. A story of origins and ends. Like a little victory over the tree, and rubbing it in the tree’s face, Logan touches the wood slat swing with his index finger, as though pointing. Look, you’ve been killed and defeated and you are now going to serve a simple human purpose only: I will sit on you and rub your face in the dirt. Logan thinks that and sits down slowly, carefully. Maybe the willow could take revenge.

            So he squares his bottom to the slat, his fifty or so pounds nimbly tugging on the willow branch. It sags only slightly, the terrible tendrils lean down just barely closer, edging in, encasing him in a just-tighter living green shroud. And Logan feels a bit safe, strangely. He lightens and sits down heavier, bringing the tree’s arms around him just enough more as to shut out the great blue sky above. He rests in his coronet, prince of the willow and the moment; triumphant, he smiles. It is the first smile in some time, at least since the adventure into the depths of the willow began.

            Logan used to play with Rhett, his redheaded next-door neighbor, under the willow and around the willow. Then Rhett moved away. Logan remembers that they played Nintendo, and it was the first time he’d ever played Nintendo. As he looks up to the spot where Rhett’s second-story room used to be, wherever it would be beyond the encasing willow, Logan reminisces. Even at such a young age, he feels the dull, seeping, withering sting of nostalgia, and it weighs heavy on his brain, like a throbbing if only it manifested physically. His smile fades. Rhett is gone. Logan remembers their back patio with the sharp sunlight casting shadows on the glass table by the pool, like a memory of the future that Logan might one day know, sitting in Los Angeles in his mid-twenties. His mom fed him and Rhett some kind of sandwiches there. He remembers. But Rhett is gone.

            Logan turns away from the hollow second-story placeholder and studies his feet. He will need them momentarily. A dog across the street, far too large to be outside of a zoo, jumps over the wooden fence intended to limit its freedom. The monster cur will not be having it today. And as it leaps over the five foot fence, Rhett would have seen it from his second-story window, but Rhett is gone. So Logan does not have any warning; he gazes at his feet. They are small, which he supposes is suitable since he too is small, at fifty pounds. His feet can only carry him so quickly, and probably faster if not for the fear that guides him, that holds them back. Logan imagines that he’d be the fastest kid in the neighborhood if fear didn’t handicap him. He hears a bark, a gritty growl, emanate from the direction of the street. Logan looks up quickly. A monster cur screams toward him, snapping and biting the great blue air down here at Logan’s level. The dog’s teeth are yellow and veins laminate its gums. It bares its teeth with a ferocity that Logan has not seen, and it keeps its ears pinned back as the beast hurtles toward the boy. Logan can’t run very fast, especially because of the fear that consumes him. And he is deathly afraid of dogs, on account of this very event.

            The ravenous mutt lunges forward, howling, eating the great blue air in a rage, enraged, engaging its target: little Logan. More quickly than Logan can bring himself to cry, the dog shuttles inward with a trajectory that indicates only one thing to Logan: vengeance. What did Logan do? The terrible dog barks monstrously and sends street gravel shuttling backwards behind it as it advances too quickly, Logan-bound. Their eyes are locked. The fear comes over Logan, welling up like an oil rig discovered, blackness oozing upward and out, covering his feet with fear. He remembers Rhett. Rhett is gone.

            The monster cur’s pinned ears rise up, demons consulting their murderous host, Logan-bound. Logan-bound, the awful dog sprints with a vengeance that Logan has never incurred. A gust of wind picks up the willow tendrils, and as the green spirals dance frenetically around him in the liminal space between the great blue air and the great blue sky, the incoming beast traverses the boundary of the previous coronal shroud. The rapacious dog advances into Logan’s close proximity with a single-minded purpose familiar to axe-murderers and psychopaths of the worst variety: love. Logan’s feet kickstart. He is made to jump up, alighting upon the green grass beneath him and crushing it with his meager frame but crushing nonetheless. He has no choice as he cries. He is made to run as his body carries him away from the monster cur, snapping, spewing its devilish hatred. Logan cries, wailing. His feet carry him with the fearful handicap; he cannot be made to run any faster. He yells, crying. As he approaches his house, his arm is made to reach for the door. He cries and his hand pounds itself against the dead, blue, wood door. Please let him in.

            The dog closes in, darting. A cacophony of terror in its velocity. Logan finds himself pounding the door, crying, screaming, wetting himself. The door does not open. And the dog, the hellish monster from across the street, nears. Logan cries and his pants are soaked. He looks behind him at the coming dusk, as the fear swells in him like a thick balloon, pressing his internal organs against his skin from the inside. He turns his head to face his fear, not wanting to but having no other choice. He backs up his butt against the dead, wooden door, the willow’s revenge as it cackles in the distant wind. The monster leaps, its toothy, satisfied, vicious snarl. Logan screams.

            His mom opens the door. He stumbles backward inside. His mom closes the door. The dog howls, barks, pounds against the door. Please don’t let him in.

            Logan sits at the piano bench. The old yellow piano from his grandmother. He knows how to play it. He never played it for Rhett when Rhett was around. Logan’s mom brings a tissue for Logan’s tears. She puts her hand on him and feels his pulse. She notices his pants, soaked. Logan shakes as he cries, saturated with fear. He does not play the piano. He fears dogs deathly.

            The dog walks back to the willow, disappointed in its unfulfilled pursuit. It gnashes its monster teeth, grinding them, growling. It rubs its back upon the willow’s bark. The wind has died. The fear is alive. The monster cur does not know that the fear is alive, though. It lives inside of the house, on the piano bench, behind the wooden, dead, blue, door, next to Logan’s mom, above the wet pants. It is in Logan’s brain, this fear. As the dog rubs its fur against the willow to scratch itself, it is not aware of the fear. But this fear remains.

            One day, Logan will go to Los Angeles, and he will sit in an apartment with a dog. It will be a small dog. He will be miles away from home, from that second-story window where Rhett once was. Rhett will be long gone. And Logan will find himself sitting with the dog, miles away, and he will find himself petting it. Its owners will be gone on vacation. Logan will be compelled to pet the dog, a small dog. It will not be a monster. It will just eat and sleep. Logan will sit with the dog and find himself compelled to pet it, and he will feel a connection to the animal. One that transforms his fear. The black oil slips away. The willow no longer lashes. There will be something there, and it will not be fear. Logan’s arm will guide his hand to pet the dog. It will be a gentle dog.