“It’s three in the morning. Are you drunk?” Larry asked me. “No, I just had to talk to someone and couldn’t think of anyone else,” I replied with desperation. “Can’t this wait until the morning, dude?” Larry asked, “I have to get up in six hours for work.” He sounded angry, but mostly tired so I pressed on. “No, this can’t wait, seriously. I’m sorry, but this is urgent.”

“Okay, what’s wrong that you had to wake me up?” Larry asked, and I was ready to talk. I was ready to talk until I couldn’t utter another word. I was distraught and scared. Larry was my best friend, and I knew he’d listen. I wasn’t sure if he could give me the right advice, but I knew he’d listen.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Try the beginning. Come on, man. It’s too late for this.”

“Alright, but have a little bit of patience.”

“Yeah, just start talking before I hang up.”

“Okay, I ****** up,” I replied and paused for a response, but Larry didn’t respond so I pressed on.

“I got off work at ten and had to close the store. My manager was in a tight spot and left me with the keys,” I said, took a breath, and continued,”I was kind of ******* when he asked me to do it, but he said he had no other choice. He even offered to give me an extra day off with pay.”

“So what’s the problem?” Larry asked.

“The problem is what I did before I left.”

“And that is?”

“Well, I was getting the store all shut up. I let most of the employees go, and I left one cashier with me so I didn’t have to run around like a maniac. There weren’t any problems, so I locked up and got ready to count down the last till so I could get the hell out of there.”

“Can you speed this up, man? I’m falling asleep,” Larry said impatiently.

“Sorry, so I count down the last till and leave it by the register. I let the last cashier go for the night and locked the door. I go back to the register and grab the till so I could put it in the office and start the deposit. My manager left me instructions for the closing procedures and the combo to the safe. I counted everything and wrapped the deposit so it could be taken to the bank in the morning. I followed the instructions perfectly.”

“So what’s the problem then?”

I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. I was having trouble finishing my story, and even though I paused I knew Larry wouldn’t hang up. He wasn’t the kind of guy that would let a story go unfinished. The only problem was that I didn’t know how to get to the next part of the story. I was like a comedian without a punchline. It was hard enough to make the phone call to Larry, let alone get this far into the story. But I did wake him up, so the least I could do was finish my story.

“Are you there?” Larry asked.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just having trouble explaining this.”

“Take a breath. Just breathe and try to start again,” Larry said with a comforting tone.

“I left with it,” I said. I was being vague on purpose so Larry would ask me what I meant instead of me telling him. And that’s exactly what he did. “You left with what?” He said sounding confused.

“I left with the deposit and everything else in the safe,” I said in a hurried tone.

“You did what?” Larry said sounding confused as if he heard me wrong.

“I left with everything. I took all the money and locked up.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I robbed my store and left. It was an impulse. I don’t know why I did it, but I did. I ****** up.”

“I hope you’re joking,” Larry said.

“I’m not joking. I just up and left with everything,” I said.

“What the **** were you thinking? How much did you take?”

“I wasn’t thinking, man. I took everything, which was a little over ten grand.”

“This isn’t good. What the ****, dude. This is bad, really really bad.”

“I know, but I don’t know what to do. That’s why I called you,” I said, sounding more desperate than when Larry had first picked up the phone.

“What do you want me to say? You just called me at three in the morning to tell me you robbed your store for a **** load of money. This is beyond a **** up, man. Where are you?”

“I’m out front of your place.”

“What? How long have you been here?” Larry asked. He sounded like he was shocked to hear me say that, but deep down I knew he understood. I didn’t know what else to do, and he was the only person I could turn to. He might not of agreed with what I did, but he would help me through anything. Whether that be good or bad; he would be there for support.

“I’ve been here since I called you. I didn’t know what to do. I’m freaking out. Like beyond freaking out. I’m so ******, man. I am absolutely ******.”

“Alright, first off get the hell inside. I’m unlocking the door now,” Larry said and hung up. I closed my phone and shut the engine to my car. I still sat in my car with my head on the steering wheel. I was emotionally drained and knew the night wasn’t over. My night was only going to get worse, and facing Larry was going to drain me. Larry knew how to give that look of disappointment only a parent could give. He wouldn’t belittle me, but the look in his eyes would be enough to make me feel small. It was already past the point of no return with Larry. I had to face him now, and he was waiting for me. I lifted my head up and rubbed my eyes. The light on his front porch was on when I lifted my head. So I got out of my car, locked it, and made my way up to his house. The door was open a crack and I stepped inside and locked it behind me. Larry’s foyer led to the kitchen, and the light was on. He was in the kitchen waiting for me.

“Is that you?” Larry yelled from the kitchen.

“Yeah.”

“In the kitchen. I just put on a *** of coffee.”

The ten second walk to the kitchen felt infinite. My legs were shaky, along with the rest of my body. I was more nervous about seeing Larry than I was about the consequences that were to follow my recklessness. I turned the corner into the kitchen to find Larry sitting at his kitchen table, staring at the coffee ***.

“Hey,” I said, being at a loss for words.

“Sit down. The coffee is almost done.”

“Okay, I think I might need a cup.”

“You and me both, bud.”

Larry and I both stared at the coffee ***. He was waiting for the coffee to finish. I was hypnotized by the drip. In a weird way it was calming and gave me time to think. I’m not sure if Larry ever took the time to glance at me, as I was only fixated on the drip. I didn’t want it to end for a few reasons. Not only was it calming, but it also prolonged the inevitable: Our conversation.

“What do you want?” Larry asked.

“What?”

“What do you want in your coffee?”

“Oh, just a little cream and a little sugar.”

Larry fixed two cups of coffee and placed a cup in front of me. He took his seat and sipped his coffee. He didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for me to speak. Before I could he cleared his throat.

“What the **** were you thinking?” He asked, as only a friend could when you make a mistake.

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“Yeah, you said that, but what could possibly make you do something like that. Really, what the **** were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I just did it, and it didn’t cross my mind until I left and set the alarm. At that time I couldn’t do anything. I already took the money and left. I couldn’t go back in the store without sounding the alarm.”

“You set the alarm. You couldn’t just go back in and shut it off?” Larry pressed.

“No, I couldn’t. There are two different codes for closing and opening. I told you it was last minute, and my manager only gave me the code to close up.” I said in all honesty.

“You couldn’t of just put the money back and let the alarm go off? I’m sure they wouldn’t of been ****** about the alarm going off. It wasn’t your responsibility in the first place to be closing the store.” Larry said, making a valid point.

“I didn’t think about that, and I told you I was freaking. I thought I was already ****** so I left. I just got in my car and got out of there. I didn’t know where to go so I drove around for a few hours, and I didn’t want to go home so I called you.”

“Yeah, well thanks for that,” Larry said sarcastically.

“I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry, really I am.”

“No you’re not. If you were sorry you would of turned yourself in.”

“Are you serious? The last place I want to be is in jail.”

“Well you should of thought about that before you committed grand larceny.”

“What do I do then? What can I do?” I asked

“For right now just enjoy your coffee. Go pour another cup and relax. I’m going to call my work and call out. There is no way I’m going to make it in after all of this ******* you brought me.”

“I’m sorry, Larry. Really, I am truly sorry.”

“Just relax, there’s nothing you can do now.” Larry said. He got up and left the room. I also got up and poured another cup of coffee. He was right, I needed to relax and just stay calm. There was nothing else I could do, and freaking out was not going to help. I sat back down, took a sip of my coffee, and rested my head in my hands. It was the most at ease I’ve been the whole night. This is why I turned to Larry. He knew how to calm me down and was my only true friend. He always had my best interest at hand, and I loved him for that.

Ten minutes later Larry returned and sat back down. He took a sip of his coffee and spit it back in the cup. “I hate cold coffee,” Larry said and got up to pour another cup. “What are you thinking about?” He asked. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t respond. Although I was calmer my mind was still racing. It felt like my head was going to explode. Thankfully it didn’t, but it sure felt like it.

“What do you think you’re going to do? Larry asked

“I’m not sure yet. I think I might just take off. What else can I do? I can’t go to jail.” I replied through my strained throat. Larry didn’t say anything. His back was faced to me as he poured another cup of coffee. “I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” He asked.

“I can’t go to jail.”

“Okay, so then what? You’re just going to flee? Just get up and go?”

“Yeah, that is the only thing that seems plausible right now.”

“You don’t expect me to go with you, do you?”

“No, not at all. This is my mess.”

“You’re **** right it is,” Larry said sounding angry for the first time.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing to me. You have no reason to say sorry to me.”

“You’re right. I think I should just go,” I said

“Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t wait around. I have to do something. And I should leave before anyone gets to the store to see the safe empty. What time is it?”

“It’s quarter after six.”

“Okay, the store opens in almost two hours. I should get going soon if I’m going to be out of the state before someone gets there.”

“Okay, if that’s what you think you got to do. Have another cup and calm down before you leave.” Larry suggested.

“Okay,” I said, accepting his offer.

I got up and walked to the coffee *** to make my last cup of coffee before I left. I knew I had to get going, but I wanted to make this last cup of coffee last. This would be the last time I would see Larry. And after all, he was my best friend. I would have many regrets when I was gone, so I tried to make this last encounter last as long as I could.

As I was pouring my last cup Larry’s doorbell rang. I looked back in a hurry and Larry put his hand on my shoulder. “Relax, it’s my neighbor. He comes over early on Tuesdays. He’s an older guy that comes over for coffee. He’s lonely and his wife passed recently. It’s the least I can do.” Larry said, and made his way to his front door. I sat back down and put my head in my hands again. The two cups of coffee I drank had me jittery. I sat and waited for Larry to return with his neighbor. When he came back in I would leave and be on my way. I had no choice, and I had to be leaving as soon as possible anyway. I didn’t need to intrude while he had company. I just rested my head, and I heard footsteps. Larry was on his way back in the kitchen, and I’d be on my way out.

A hand rested on my shoulder. I still kept my head in my hands.

“Mr. Kofta?”

I looked up and nearly fell off my chair.

“I’m Officer Shandie, and I’m going to need you to come with us.”

There were three police officers in Larry’s kitchen, and Larry was standing right beside them. He looked at me in disappointment, like only a parent can look at their child. Officer Shandie pulled me up and put my hands behind my back. He cuffed me and led me to the front of the house. All of the police officers followed, along with Larry. I was being put into the back of the police cruiser when Larry stopped them and spoke up.

“I can’t keep bailing you out. You’re not running from this mistake.”

Larry stepped aside as I was put in the back of the car. The door was shut, and my fate was sealed. Officer Shandie got in the cruiser and backed out of Larry’s driveway.

The only similarity Larry and I had that night was when I leaving to be taken to the police station. We both had our heads down.

I guess it was when I found the eviction notice on the front door, or when I was going on three months being unemployed, or maybe even the point where I questioned myself as a writer, is when I sat down and started writing out facts. I was a writer in love with fiction, and besides my non-fiction work that allowed me enough money to eat (mostly to drink, unless there were food specials at the bar) I was writing short stories. I never thought about writing about my life, because in my mind I was still young. I was wet behind the ears; a little **** that thought he knew everything. I know nothing.

Dr. Seidman asked me if I wanted to play a board game.
I didn’t respond, in fact I looked as if I was ignoring him purposefully, but I wasn’t. He sat patiently and waited for me to respond. The truth was that I was apprehensive. This was the first time I had been in front of a therapist, and I didn’t know what to say, let alone how to act. I found it odd that the first thing he asked me was if I wanted to play a game. I was ****** as well. Before I got in the car with my mother I sat upstairs in my bedroom, took out my “inhaler” and packed the bowl. (During this time in my adolescence I was fascinated with marijuana and also with the devices used to smoke it with. I didn’t like rolling joints, and blunts had not caught on at that time. Instead, I would make my own bowls. My inhaler became one of my favorites; it was easy to conceal). I got ******, headed downstairs, grabbed a water, lit a cigarette (my parents were adjusting to the fact their fourteen year old was a smoker), waited outside of my mom’s station wagon, finished my cigarette, flicked it at the end of the driveway, and got in the car. The car ride to Dr Seidman’s office was unbearable. Neither of us spoke, the radio was turned down to a low volume, playing music form the 70’s and 80’s; Elton John’s Someone Saved My Life Tonight was playing. It was ironic to say the least. By the time the song ended we were in the general vicinity of his office. My mother was gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles becoming white, her face becoming red. It was at this point that I realized she was just as nervous as I was.

“**** her,” I thought. She was the reason I was going to see this man. I didn’t ask to come here and she had the audacity to be nervous. She was being selfish. We could have turned the station wagon around and went back home. We could have taken care of any of our problems at home. We didn’t need to consult a “professional” and talk about our “feelings.” This was the point that I felt my life had become the stereotypical suburban life: a life that you would see on television shows; one that consisted of doctors, prescription drugs, confused youth, mid-life crisis, and of course the nervous breakdowns.

We are in front of the doctor’s office. The area surrounding us looks like an industrial park. I don’t know what to think of this, but I in any sense an exterior cannot speak for an interior.

My mother and I are still in the station wagon, seat belts still buckled, the radio still down low, when she turns to me. She looks at me, only the way a mother can, and smiles. I can only bring myself to return her smile with a smirk. I have always been known for my apathetic smirk. I’m waiting for her to speak. I know she is trying to think of the right words, but like me, we have a habit of saying the wrong thing. Our words are always misplaced even though we might have the best intentions.

“Don’t ******* him,” she said

“Okay,” I said in return.

There must be a catalogue book that caters to therapists.

Dr. Seidman’s office looked very generic, like I had fallen into a bad movie, or like the only furniture allowed in the office had to be leather. That is the one smell I will always remember from his office. Even now when I smell leather I think of his office.

On his desk was a calendar, assorted writing utensils (although he had a name placard with a golden pen inserted in the center), and a desk lamp with the customary green glass shade. The wall to the right of him, and next to the office door, was lined with assorted books; filling up the bookcases that took up the full space of the wall. I was sitting on a leather couch that faced the office door. He was sitting in his leather armchair in front of his desk. He looked at me; I looked at the elaborate stitch work of the carpet. The office was calmly lit and relaxing, even though I still looked tense. I didn’t want him to look me in the eye. They were dry and red and I was high.

“Would you like to play a game?” He asked me.

I continued to stare at the carpet. He kept silent while waiting for my answer. I was thankful for that.

When I was tired of the carpet I glanced up and over to where he was sitting to find him looking at a marble chess set. I was expecting his eyes to be on me. They weren’t.

“What kind of game?”

“What do you like? I have board games, we can play cards, or checkers, or chess. Why don’t you tell me what game you’re good at? I’ve played them all countless times, but I’m always looking for a good challenge.” He said with a subtle level of smugness. He was trying to entice me, to challenge me, and it was working.

I spotted the checker board. “Checkers. I’m good at checkers.”

“Then checkers it is,” he said brightly. He stood and grabbed the antique looking checker board and grabbed a table to put in between us. He placed the board on the table and moved his seat closer. We were now face to face and ready to start our first of many strategic games.

Our first meeting was spent in front of a checker board in silence. Very seldom did we exchange words. After three games of checkers (which he won), we shook hands and he told me our session was over for the night. He walked me to his office door, said hello to my mother with a formal introduction, and told us both that he was looking forward to seeing us both the next week. My mother asked me to wait in the car while she asked the doctor a question. I didn’t argue. I walked to her car and unlocked it. I sat and for once in a long time felt at ease.

I went into Dr. Seidman’s office with a pre-conceived notion of talking, or not talking, about my feelings and what caused them. Instead we played checkers. We watched each other’s moves on the checker board. He had a way of making a vulnerable situation bearable. He put my anxiety at ease. But while I sat alone in my mother’s station wagon I couldn’t stop thinking of one thing he said before I walked outside. He said he was looking forward to seeing both of us the next week. I was curious by what he meant when he said “both of us.”

The story I've been telling is becoming less close to the chest.
Curious nature is that of a private man openly speaking tragedy.
Delivered with an uncomfortable smirk, because humility is foreign.
At this time, respectively.

It began with short sentences. Small worked because it was never enough to give insight into
the whole picture. Of course there was source material. Coincidences occasionally, but my sources were
always kept hidden. My skeletons, some would say.

Then the sentences became longer, if not, the paragraphs would.
Every now and then a hand cramp would delay the process, but
the mind kept going. What else did it have to do, but think?

But back to misplacing a humble way.
As soon as you state that you are,
you have become a contradiction,
a liar,
a cheat,
a thief,
the **** of the Earth.

But what do I know?

I'm only trying to be humble.

College dreamers,
trust fund seams broken down
like veins after repetitive prods.
Drinking days
are alliteration accented
because two
dollar drinks deserve denotation.

A hangover that brings
clarity is irony;
a sad realization made
after a night of excess.
A drop of vulnerability
and personal accountability
is desperation, and preference
at this point is permissible,
yet premature.

Face buried, between the sheets, wrapped in legs and lust,
books thrown against a wall.
Classes are dropped faster
than broken furniture
and one night stands.
And **** the taste.
We're all chasing that last sip
that brings a confidence
to think rhythmically.

When the emergency room
is at maximum occupancy,
the nurses will lay down
their clipboards and utensils,
clear their throats, and ask for
women and children
to approach the desk first.
To ensure proper care,
forms still must be completed promptly,
and as patiently as possible for the
patient to be processed.

There's the occasional backwards R.
But all is acceptable with a
signature by the X.
Adrenaline coursing
through veins may perhaps lead
the cause of instability,
some instances coarse skin.
A child with the heart of a lion,
shell of a turtle, will always overcome;
rest assured, an insured child,
prints their name with the
unmistakable yet
innocent backwards R still
knows that words are as powerful
as excruciating pain.
Sticks and stones and words alone
have been known to break through bone.

With the twitch of a finger
even Danny Torrance made
the word "Redrum" seem
like a word to reflect on,
if not only a feeling
of constant déjà vu.

Intensive care is a surgeon
not leaving a wristwatch
inside of a patient,
if not a cadaver
whose time ran out.

A vehement deity,
father of a carpenter,
and proprietor of creationism,
looked down upon his work,
both literally and figuratively.
When an ecosystem falls to the
egocentricity of man, a vessel
will be sought, and contained is
the righteousness of a mortal.

Serenity became inclination, and
with loss of the feminine beauty
came regret. For sin masqueraded
as black clouds, and whether
change occurs, torrential rain begets
growth in an environment. Wash over
the sins of the ******; what is current
can only be exposed as a fallacy when
revelation is prevalent,
and save for the innocent:
innocuous.

Even in Hell a cyprus tree would be
surrounded by wildflowers.
Noah knew not of damnation, and
with calloused hands raised to the sky,
a hammer came crashing down.

Not unlike stone tablets
etched with command,
the world lay on granite,
with a universal epitaph.
For Noah to ignore his destiny
would be blasphemous.

The body goes through changes.

The mind grows.

Eventually goes.

There is time spent knowing...

knowing about one's existence,

what love is,
what it isn't.

Feeling

With feet firmly planted on the ground,

it becomes frightful to think of being beneath it.

Food for the Earth, we are.

We populate our planet,

and we have come far.


We've documented man's evolution.

The evolution.
The enlightenment.
The ecosystem.

However, we forget about the gift we are given.

Spinning on an axis.

We're egocentric.

We put ego over eco.


We're contained.

Entomology, of sorts.

Maybe Darwin was right.

“After hours of evaluations, our doctors came to the conclusion that he was paranoid, but speaking with family and friends, they stated that there were no obvious signs of mental distress. No one expected him to go through with the ******. He had a lot of faults, but most were thought to be harmless. His idiosyncrasies were overlaid with a well thought out patience and understanding. During the evaluation he spoke of compartmentalization, and his lack of emotional comprehension, which he explained should not be misconstrued as “apathetic behavior.”  His words were inveigled, and when he wasn’t applying his charming disposition, he was implementing a passive aggressiveness. This was a man who did not hide in the shadows, but he knew them very well. Darkness was shown through his eyes the longer we spoke, as his pupils grew larger, and his determined stare, a menacing stare, pierced people’s souls.” – Dr. Rebecca Altwater

Thursday

On the train. Not awake. It's not too crowded, around me at least. There is a group of black students, yes, I said black, because that is the color of their skin, and, well, I’m white, and I’m fine with being described as white. This is all factual. So the black, students, high school students, are creating a commotion. (I have always hated using the term “African American” because it has always made me feel prejudice. When I say it, I think of it as a label, and I’d rather not go further into what I mean by *labels). The train smells like ****. The smell overpowers my coffee. The coffee is weak. My body is aching. I’m starting to develop a headache. (The students are now beat boxing). My head is mutating. Temples pulsating. Veins exposed. Eyes closed. The beat boxing continues.

I reach into my leather shoulder bag. I’m not looking for anything in particular, more or less trying to look busy. A woman three seats down is watching me intently. My eyes are fixated on my bag. I can feel her eyes examining me. It’s hard to rule out the theory of having a sixth sense, especially in situations as these. My fingers delicately brush over a novel, the novel I decided to read during the train ride for this work week, to which I haven’t started reading, and completely forgot I placed in my bag — (It was an impulsive purchase) it was now another item that would solidify the self-realization that I am a procrastinator, and considering that this novel was for the work week, and it is now Thursday, just proves my point further. The novel will be shelved, and another novel will take its place in my leather shoulder bag. Although I may not follow through with my intentions I am still a person who stays very consistent. I will swap novels. After work I will stop at Borders books. I’ll need a new novel for work week number thirty out of fifty-two. After a week it will be shelved, and I will start again: buy another novel, and continue to not read it. I’m a very consistent person.

Saturday

My alarm went off for thirty minutes this morning.

Sunday

Glenn, my brother, calls me early in the afternoon to invite me to dinner. A family dinner. And he informs me that our mother will be there. He graciously asks me if I can attend, but I know he only invites me because he is dreading our mother’s visit. Very seldom do I see or hear from my brother and his family, but when our immediate family is added to the equation I am the first person he calls. I am (and this is how he put it) his “emotional confidant” when he becomes too overwhelmed. The reason this is, is because it has always been a one way street. His perception of me is not the most desirable, but he trusts my word. The term that comes to mind, when him and I converse, is that I am self-destructive. It must be easy for him to give insight to this speculation when he is just as irrational as I am. Our only difference is that I have embraced the idea of negative and positive spontaneity, whereas his neurosis comes from self-induced pressure and stress. When I die, it would not be in vain if it happened without warning. I am reckless. If he died unexpectedly, it would be of great shock, but it will most likely be the cause of a brain aneurysm.  It’s funny how irony works. You know, us being brothers, and him seeing us as total opposites, when in reality our similarities outweigh the obtuse differentials.

Wednesday

It’s the halfway point of the work week. I have my new novel, untouched, in my leather shoulder bag. For the last three days (including today) I have arrived at the train station an hour earlier than usual. I made this decision Monday, and have found that it is a more logical time. Although I have an hour to **** before work, I avoid my headache (the black students) before sitting at my office desk. Thankfully, there weren't too many pros and cons that came with this decision. It was fairly easy. I could have continued to deal with an excruciating head pain, one that would stick with me throughout the day, or sacrifice an hour of sleep. The latter was the correct choice. When I came to this conclusion on Sunday I could not rest my brain. My mind was at ease, I felt relieved and content, but I was apprehensive nevertheless. Monday came and went, (slowly, because of minor sleep deprivation) along with all of my anxieties from the past week.

I never thought I’d say this, but seeing a therapist helps. There hasn't been much to articulate yet, concerning my listlessness, but my insomnia was discussed, and I was optimistic. My problems could be far worse, and when they are, maybe leaving an hour early is the answer. My next appointment is in two hours, at four, and I’m going to leave shortly. I don’t know what I will do for the extra hour I have allotted myself, but I do have a novel I won’t read and a newspaper that was left on my desk, with the headline reading, “Crime Rates Rise: How To Maintain Your Sanity During The Recession.”

"It's good, but maybe you should write shorter," I was told.
Granted this was told to me by a man that believes the word artistic
to be closely related to the word autistic, but I can only assume that riding any
unfamiliar wavelength is terribly confusing, if not immeasurably difficult.

Knowing that you can confide in yourself, whether or not I'm misinterpreting
individual delegation for conscience, I believe altruism to be fundamental to
a person before growth can occur. Unless of course you're writing short poems.
And if you're curious enough to implement apathy, sarcasm is a fine starting point.

They say that if you want to master something you need to perform daily.
Accompany this with the old adage, "Love what you do," and you can imagine the potential.
Mastering an activity with love is transcendent, calm although sometimes piquant.
Passion and pleasure aren't identical, but imagine the potential.

I don't bleed ink.
It has to be an attempt at benevolence, to say that.
Extreme literary pretensions you must have to bleed out.
Writing should have a pulse. It. Should. Make. Each. Word. Count.

Yet, when this man told me that my words are good, but I should keep it shorter,
knowing not if I could or would, I became curious as to why he worried more about
length and not the content and story as a whole. Then I had to rationalize this to myself, and thought: It would be easier to convey words with images, like a film or animation.

But I don't bleed ink,
and I guess I don't bleed popcorn.

My fingers bleed
as I scratch the inside of my skull.
Like cleaning out a pumpkin to carve,
removing pulp and fingernails,
and scattering seeds to be planted.
Vacant minded, a candle
placed and centered in my head,
illuminating my eyes
and putting color to my cheeks.

Tape measure stretched,
razor sharp snap back.
Graphite on pine.
Rusted teeth cut deep.
Being boxed in, yet waiting,
anticipating the metal nails to sing
as wood meets wood.

Plumes of smoke escape
the pine structure.
My candlelight depletes along
with oxygen. This containment
only serves to obfuscate while
holding a crowbar.
And the seeds planted above
linger in soil
marinated by wood chips.
All the while the vegetable
shrivels up and cries.

Save the date, the letter reads.
The date staring me in the face,
with the time right beside.

I remember our time, although
it was never dated, only stated.

My face gleams,
reflected in the gold embroidered letters.
The date and time leaving an impression.
The letters and words sinking in.
Permanently pressed.

The letter sealed two fates.
A celebration to connect two souls.
But no room for a third party,
at the party that is.

Guests will arrive with gifts,
setting them atop the table.
As I find room for my excess baggage.

Perfect gift to receive before the honeymoon.
In my eyes, not others.
As they approach and say,

“You ruined her day! Do you even care?”

And I reply, “I do.”

In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
eyes green,
waiting.
Dilating.

In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
is what I called you.
God of Euphoria.
Mother's Milk.

In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
had a street
value,
of twenty-five
a pill.
I bought four,
and thankfully
the dollar bill,
was crisp enough to roll.

A different world together,
holding hands.
Greedy for the feeling of calm,
I would grasp tighter,
hand eventually crushing hand.
Morose disposition spirals through a cut straw.
A last straw; an unwanted kiss.

Hand holding hand is a symbolic image,
but don't confuse the inflection of these words.

This is about
the deteriorating hands.
This is about
the deteriorating nostrils.
Not so much about cheap thrills.
Not so much anything,
forgetting,
drugs ****.

It starts to happen when the bad days outnumber the good days. At least that's what I'm told. Or maybe I have told myself that.

I've had this peculiar tick since I was a child. I rub my hands. It has become more prominent as I've gotten older. I'm sure it goes unnoticed, but I'm also sure that I'm not sure of much these days. On the good days I don't think of my hands. On the bad days I seem to be on the verge of clapping. If only enthusiasm came from this anxiety driven mannerism. On the really bad days I know that rubbing my hands together is keeping me from pulling my hair out. The really bad days are the days I get my headaches.

"If you're going to excessively ask questions I'll need a new server," Dante stated, purposefully avoiding eye contact. You don't make eye contact with the help, he was once told.

The shades are covering the windows of the restaurant, and the sun that gleams through the oil stains looks fresh. The coffee I ordered smells burnt. It may or may not be the fault of the server. But seeing as how I received two creamers when I specifically asked for three certainly leaves me to be speculative. A bell jingles at the entrance, I turn my head, nod to my friend, and pour my two creamers into my coffee. Two should suffice, although I did ask for three. It's the principle.

Being introspective and witty, and being objective and authentic was once seen as a form of normalcy. To clarify: if the latter is factual, it will usually coincide with the former. We are a parasite to information. Our senses are forces. We are forced to see, to hear, to taste, smell, feel. No matter how we perceive our sense, we are forced to experience it. How do you satisfy yourself, when one, there is too much to consume --mentally omnipotent, perhaps, considering our infinite curiosity regarding research in the field of neuroscience (Over the top sarcasm). And two, when the ability to retain information is slowly escaping our grasp; or becoming obsolete due to the convenience of technology. Narrow thinking. Black and white. Left or Right. Right or wrong. Our sense is our higher power. Maybe, just maybe, that feeling of being watched, the possible "sixth sense," is why we seek solace. Answers evade us, and we become irritable rather than theoretical. Is there a God? Is religion formidable? Are we God's children; are we the abandoned children of a martyr that is still seeking resurrection and resolution? Maybe our specie is the homeless man looking for sanctuary resting atop the church steps. Kneel at the altar. Seek Christ. Stare at the cross. An everlasting reminder that we have failed as a whole. We look for a sign, while we craft them to gain attention, or recognition. Are we the homeless man? Or are we the worker that pays to sin? What are we now? Where are we?

What are we now? Where are we?

Ignore the cracks in the sidewalk. To Hell with the sidewalk. To Hell with the path of righteousness.

Our days are borrowed.

Wednesday is lent to us. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

{MW} exhaled in annoyance. "Where's all this coming from, man? I get having an opinion or being bias, but c'mon. Some things you shouldn't bring up in conversation. You know people say there are certain topics that are never good to bring up, and I'm sure religion is in the top three."

"Don't you send weekly emails to politicians?" Dante asks passively.

"What are you getting at?"

"Nothing, forget it," Dante says, trying to pull himself out of the hole that is already dug.

"No no, continue with your point. Unless you need time to conjure one up."

"I don't need time. I believe I have everything well thought out. But you...better to instigate than participate."

"Get to the point." {MW} says.

"Okay, listen. What I am saying is that being blunt is now regarded as being closed-minded. If you say or write anything that conflicts with a person's morals you're going to be seen negatively. Sent right down the ******' river. People are sensitive. And we're conditioned to be this way. Our governments need order, as do we, so we set our own codes to coincide with black and white moral issues. As for religion, the only concept I can agree with is The Ten Commandments."

Our server walks by our table. Our eyes follow.

"That's it?" {MW} asks.

"What do you mean that's it?" Dante asks in return.

"Mr. ******' opinion and you give the most vague answer."

"Thank you peanut gallery."

*You become close with a person over time, now speaking first hand, we can sometimes adapt to their nature.

That is what I saw her doing with me for a long time. Simple as repeating things I've said in conversation. Her drink taste, until she evolved into this retroactive aristocrat. There were a lot of things that I had seen. I am guilty as well. I became interested in her reading habits. So, I started to read books she liked, little things like that. And so it goes. I would excel in social situations, and she would inadvertently expose me to a lot of great literature. I was always attracted to her books, and to her features, I suppose. And after time invested, concerning our friendship, it seems like in this situation there is a connection. Now, I know we just handle our relationship differently. And that's how I know we are different. There is a difference between not being empathetic, and being apathetic. I'm content. She's in a gray area.

This is far too complicated for me to speak verbatim. As bad as that sounds, I think after I explain myself you might be more sympathetic toward me.

A person must judge another by their character. Ignorance and bias media make issues out of race. If you are a person that does not understand any movement, then most likely you have never stood up for anything in your life. It is sad that divisions are at play between people when we are all the same. We are humans. Your ***, race, or theology does not matter. What does matter is the fact that people come from different backgrounds. That is the only difference between people. You do not choose your parents. You do not choose your upbringing. A child that is handed everything will not understand the life a child has that only knows struggle. If you do not understand socioeconomic disparity and the reasons why they are in place, you will not understand injustice on a institutional level. When you see other races talking about ideologies such as "white privilege" it is completely justified because there are situations that a white man may not face ever in his lifetime, but a minority is aware of and taught at an early age because they will certainly come across it. The beauty of this country is being able to have an opinion without the fear of consequence, but understand that basic "Rights" are a fallacy. A right can be taken away. That in and of itself is a privilege. There is too much complacency within this generation and ones before it. You must have convictions. You must have beliefs that are not only based around religious faith, but the act of altruism. Does a person need to label something to reach a level a comfortability? No, not at all. That is a common misinterpretation of ignorance, when it is plainly a way to state that knowing what something is does not have to be explained. I'm not sure if some think education stops when schooling is finished, but it's not. And as much as people want to talk about this country and others falling to the wayside, it is because of inaction and not being able to unify and have empathy for others. Your life is your own, but to secure a future and continue progression we must all stand together and not be presumptuous, but rather be protective of community and critical thinking. There are too many losers in the system, and they aren't minorities, they're people not properly educated. You can't erase history as easy as you can erase atrocities that aren't just. Don't put your trust in your government, but your neighbors. But that doesn't mean that you should also exclude social programs that are needed as much as oxygen. This is the life you are given, and it is you decision to stand up or sit down. And if you do stand up, do it for the right reason: valuing life. If this message does not resonate with you, we have nothing in common, and that's fine, but don't talk about current events or social problems that are beyond your comprehension.

- Charlie

Remember when you told me you forgot your middle name.
And that you didn't remember if you even had one.
That your parents weren't particularly religious; that they forgot God.
And that you've been forgetful lately.
You couldn't
remember
the last time you picked flowers.
Or a president.
Or shot a gun.
Or put a flower in a gun.
And that Vietnam was like Iraq.
And France would bring WWIII.
"What's my middle name?"
You asked.
"Where's the Middle East?"

"Didn't the nukes dropped in the Nevada desert sand create glass?"

"How many windows does this room have? Can you see?"

"The eyes are the windows to the soul."

My eyes feel old
Is what my grandmother would say
when she was tired.
She would play solitaire.
After each game she would
shuffle the deck three ways.
I would always mix them up
scattered on the tabletop.
That's what I remember
from the sixties.

This world wasn't meant for me.
To be all that you can be
means you must give in
to giving up one of your desires.

When you can feel your heart
by touching your wrist
you're able to close your eyes
and feel the Earth spin.

That is transcendence.

That is comprehension.

It's what cathartic energy
once was, before sacrifice was
essential for happiness.

This world hasn't accepted me.
I've only learned to
tolerate injustice and
repetitive wrongdoings
that history has tried
to educate the masses with.

They're written in
differing languages and
many books; books that implore
morals and ethics,
but place brothers and sisters
into groups of people
destined to fail.

Simply because
minor differences are easier
to swallow than
major similarities.

That's why this world isn't
meant for me, or you.

We sacrifice
our lungs for shelter,
and our hearts for love.

There's no sense in coincidence.
But I found the perfect book for you,
the same day I read your obituary in
the newspaper. These reading materials kept on a locked ward.
You kept buried under ground,
like a secret turmoil your family
could not bear with.
The one you also spoke of.
But that is irony.
Something I do believe in.

"Am I God?"

"I've killed people. I've killed you twice today. Are you God?"

You weren't afraid of your shadow.
But rather the people in the sky.
The peers walking, talking, doing
what they do best.
Dissect the innocent.
Disengage humanity.
Regress until broken,
until shattered,
until sand.

"Am I God?"

You aren't, a ******'s son.
Nietzsche was correct.
God is dead.

He has this nervous tick.
When a person is lying he will open his mouth.
Sometimes his jaw will hit the floor.
Sometimes words will come out.
And sometimes there are consequences,
if not only a sore jaw.

He is an affable man.
Many would say he's a good sport
and in good nature, even though he's not
athletic and has severe allergies.
Handshakes are important to him.
And he understands the appeal of a thumbs-up.
Hugs are reserved for holidays,
and tears were only had at funerals.
Sunglasses optional, but the only pair
he owns he keeps
in the jacket of his black suit.

Any man that has a tendency to speak too freely,
or too much, will have to learn to talk their way out of a potentially harmful situation.
The "Gift of Gab"did not die with the smock.
It evolved with the suit.
It became five words said in three.
It is in relation to political correctness.
It's knowing that government is not *******,
but many representatives are mentally challenged.

He tries to stay ahead of his mannerisms.
Raised eyebrow.
Twitching eye.
Clenched teeth.
But some things cannot be hid.
Like the vein in his forehead.
And of course his verbal diarrhea.
But he would rather expell insight
and opinion rather than hold
it in only to force it out later in privacy.

People involved in Fine Art are shot on site.
Possession of a canvas brings a life sentence.
The art departments are born from advertising.
False pretense is considered flexible.
When the program used is for the sole purpose
of manipulation you aren't expected to become angry. Government turns the clocks back, stretching time and truth,
with knowledge of a man who has done
the same, and was considered a master.

Metaphysics and a mustache,
he changed the world with a canvas,
and with an open mouth he expelled truth
and injustice to a contemporary audience.
He applied his paint with a poetic eye.
Soon he learned that you don't need
to start a fire to melt a clock.
All you need is a brush,
and sometimes a barren tree.

My family doctor suggested bed rest.
If that was a statement rather than a suggestion,
I wouldn't know, because the redundancy of those
two words was enough to keep me idle,
awake, agitated for days.

It was around the time he carefully
scribbled his script onto the blue pad
that I began to chuckle. This prefixed
prescript was only a temporary solution
that was barely legible. Whether or not
a scribe in this profession is meant to
be as erratic as nomadic cavern canvas,
it speaks volumes that the DSM IV considers
substantial. Until a once thought preconceived
notion becomes precedent in the ongoing
sought after expansion of knowledge.

A continuation of disorder and disease,
the facts and fallacies,
all become testing.
The standard practice is only as strong
as its weakest hypothesis.
More so when it becomes general practice.
I would like to believe
this to be an emergency,
but the white-coat before me
felt the need to sidetrack,
and thought it appropriate to mention
youth in Asia.

The deadpan humor
was disconcerting.
But not as unnerving
as the redundancies that
were given to me as a solution
for my sporadic sleep.

Some insurance!
Reassure me, doctor!
So, he did,
through his proclivity
for pharmaceuticals.

The 20th century a new philosophy was introduced: Existentialism.

Existentialism is pertaining to human existence, and finding our ideal self, along with the meaning of life through free will. This German philosophy must have been confusing, because not long after the beginning of the next century, free will showed us that eradication and apathy can be achieved by "following orders" and not questioning the ideals of your country's ideology.

The idea of this philosophy is that humans are searching for who they are and what they will become by the choices they make based on their experiences without the complications of laws, traditions, or ethnic rules. Now, the ivory and ebony pieces that lay atop the granite chess board are one of a handful of acceptable, yet objective black and white cohabitations that can't function one without the other.

Strategically sound is the sycophant. Then in reference to people, how easy is it to spot a Parasite when trying your hardest not to be stereotypical? That is why it's easier to hate a person because the color of their skin rather than their theology and ancestry.

This idea of free will is sometimes misconstrued as a hindering factor in reference to the education system. Our foundation is put in place at an early age; this is our fundamental axis, and this reasoning is acceptable because
of our commitment and trust in conditioning ourselves.

And when you need to teach youth about hate and pass it off as love, you must regulate the educational systems, and propaganda needs to be subtle yet exposed in mass media and entertainment, along with chalkboards and textbooks.

Considering the learning differential, people who use a different side of their brain than a peer have a chance of excelling in their studies of specific subjects; however, this does not apply in all cases. See science and language as objective, and abhorrence as once subjective with an edit and an asterisk.

One factor is assumptions made regarding social structure. And this is what happens when something is driven by an economic imperative. But statistics are heavily confusing and easily manipulated when some groups of people are thrown figuratively and literally into ghettos.

This has made people a taxable commodity, but not one for a universal vantage. The reason for that has to do with the socioeconomic status of certain communities. Then again, when a country is at war with itself, being drafted will provide an individual with the necessary rations, and when you're wearing a uniform, bank statements do not matter.

From this point on we can put people into two classes: academic and non-academic.

None of which matters when you're staring at the barrel of a gun: automatic or semi-automatic.

Tile floor on my face and knees to my chest, I call for my mother, who happens to be in the same position on a bed. This dependent relationship started out being as easy as asking the man for a piece of his roast because you wield a fork and knife. Since the era that brought Y2K we were doomed. At thirteen you may carry some wits about you, but without a mentor there is a tendency for anger. A rant and a rave, or some wit coupled with rage.

Two planes crashed into two buildings.
New York City was in disarray. I'm buying a video game the day before I start high school. Thankfully I caught the news before the game was powered on. People jumping from buildings. A mayor covered in dust, turning sharply at the corner of each city block, being inquired by reporters and journalists. But a man that is as surprised as his city can only keep walking. Four years later people still grieved. Some never boarded a flight again. By that time I left school.

Seventeen was drugs. That led until twenty-one. Those are lost years, or ones I wish to not account for. The years that came back felt like before Y2K, a recession that was only going to become worse, and depending on which side won the battle would there be more bodies falling from buildings. Ignorant to an economy that was already set to topple over, I went to school with partial loans. Not as bad as iron shackles, but with interest rates that ensure the need for a second industrial revolution.
People can speculate.
Oh, what you know is ignorance!

There aren't many outcomes to this predicament...
Old bankers can be sealed in their vaults. An older generation can retire without worry. And the "Millennials" will inherit the workload of two previous generations.
No.
That is the last thread holding embellished dreams. Before the ignorant generation is attacked, let's say that what credit was in the nineties to our parents and scheming developers is what a full glass of champagne was before the Great Depression. But this intelligent, idealistic, young generation that is crippled from the start will not succumb to rationed goods and bread lines.

Department of Defense says you're going to die. That Government is too big to fail. And they're wrong. On more than one front. Their military is for us, but the corporations are exclaiming, "Charge!" How easily you can become a mannequin to a department store. How quickly a baton can break your forearm.

They say that the Statue of Liberty was once copper. They say over time copper turns green, from weather, and I suppose time. Yes, it's scientifically explained, but imagine a statue with only tarnish by the eyes. That might be the symbolism we need, but no, a woman made of copper does not cry.

So, thirty is approaching. Not within the next few Sun rotations, but soon enough. Many people my age want change. More than pocket change. We were raised on accountability and morals. Now being adults this isn't a "Do what I say, not what I do" argument. These are lives. This about saying, "Sliced bread isn't the best thing!" It's standing up for your dignity and integrity. Something that isn't found at a computer screen.
Maybe at one time it was.
Now the truths you speak are chastised. Capitalist societies adopted Martin Luther's Catholic Church. Now a notice on a door is sent to a screen.

Laying on this tile floor is tiresome. And working two jobs gets in the way. The hardest part is ignoring the demon involving work. Knees to your chest may be safe behind a closed door. But the outside world is monitored. You can only get up, kiss your mother on her forehead, hoping hers knees descend, and hope that finishing your work happens in time for you to create your art.
Hopefully that is something that can never be taken away.

The little black book I keep next to my journals sits on a bookshelf I made from recycled wood. A fresh coat of paint may hide a splintered past unknown to me, but that is of zero importance when refurbished trees that died for a purpose hold books containing paper collected from a different tree that is now dignified in service.

One that expands as more hot air is blown, and shrinks when cold shouldered. The little black book holds numbers without faces, but the pocket in the back holds a face that could never be confused as paint by number.
It maps out the girl I've been searching for that never deserved a page in this book of lust, only the pocket in the back that will one day accept my trust.

And the reason this little black book is kept on the recycled bookcase is because the paper is also recycled, the same as the trash that litters the pages.

The firewood kept beside the fence post was soggy, surly was the evening weather, and Mother Nature was redefining the word torrential
A drop to the eye, rendering it senseless. On one side of the spectrum, a crystal or a rock comes from dirt. Although that other side, the side of the spectrum that enlightens by color. A yellow or a blue or a red are useful.
So by that exploitation will become the
puzzle pieces of which the artist creates. Imagine having a thought cross and be ignored. Saying that, maybe the Earth isn't flat, and maybe a Christmas card is not as commercial as it is ceremonial. Perception is one side to say, but the gentleman pouring gasoline on a fire is far from the man asking for a drink shaken, not stirred.
When the fire becomes everlasting, water will not quench a thirst for destruction, and that is because there has never been an accident that could ever be everlasting. The man that knows that does not exit the house with a helmet. He simply raises the proverbial glass and swallows what is in front of him. At times the end brings a sweetness. The only other times are consumed with a bitterness. One that an artist knows as he takes his shot of whiskey, but not of the man that is readily available to set himself on fire. That is a drop of rain on your tongue. At the beginning it is too fragile to become a warning, but at the end it is what separates lands and lives. That is why saltwater and tears aren't that much different.

Today, I'm going to **** them with kindness.
I'll walk the streets with a skip in my step,
corners of my mouth arched, skin tough.
I will be rubber. I will not be glue.
I will avoid sticks and stones.
I will be Teflon.

Yesterday, I killed someone, with kindness.
I created art, in many ways, I created Hell.
A page filled with gestures may seem ageless, however,
a spectacular self-awareness occurs.
There is closure. There is completion.
Unlike the manipulation of one's face.
There too is completion, but closure is not
always certain. Some leave with last words
that linger. Some lift their arms to The Lord,
Lord hear their prayer. And others find
themselves at peace, living on in the hearts
and minds of others, loved or not.

Is a legacy more important to an Atheist?
That's speculative, I suppose. But if what they
say is true, and most CEO's are psychopaths,
then I would assume that it is. Monetary value
will always triumph over theoretical morality.
And I say that morals and ethics can be theory
to a man certain of his faith, because in the end,
sin can be absolved. Faith in a higher being, in
something bigger than yourself, often leaves
thought of peers as dismissible. For they have
their own demons to overcome.

How do you accept indifference in a system
that is above natural law? Omnipotence should
never be exposed to have a grey area, especially
when it is considered to be set in stone. Oxygen
and gravity aren't, but tell that to a man who
is falling and trying to catch his last breath.

Lastly, consider art.
As the creator, the mastermind hidden in
the clouds to let his work speak volumes.
The divine grace that is told in brush strokes,
in notes placed to play, to be presented.
That's a beauty that is foresaken.
Another key representation of something
seen but not seen.

Even a deaf man delivered notes he could not
hear, rivaled ones able, and challenged normality.
The difference between an artist, and
a person producing art, is that an artist
will use blood, whereas the latter
searches for a comparable color.

My father told me
to **** myself.
Lacking like-mindedness,
thankfully I've never been one
to do as they're told.

Knuckles white,
gripping the steering wheel,
face flush,
my inner monologue tells me
to drive straight through the curve.
A crash a crunch and a click.
This accident had a purpose;
was on purpose.
Upside-down, perspective is vertigo.
Clarity is a crack in the windshield.

Shattered glass lay around me.
Lump in my throat
from a pill too large to swallow.

So I crawl to an antique store
and purchase an urn.
A pull from a cigarette, I tap
the ash into the urn.
When the pack is finished
I place the lid
and hand the contents
to my father.

Image based, and
position placed,
to keep society spaced,
image of peace erased.

Individuals put in groups,
separated by bodies,
as Congress lobbies,
preparing forbidden fruits.

People told to turn a blind eye.
Focused on the one atop the pyramid.
"Spend greenbacks, don't sigh!"
These are government truths!
Not a marketable lie!

Human soul for sale;
morals thrown out to no avail.
Industry infiltrates and states:
Conformity: You'll win, not fail.

My hands above my head,
I grasp for purpose,
and pull the Sun to my chest.

Circles become arbitrary.
Squares, the cousins of
rectangles are discredited as
man-made. That's why metaphors
known as squares are seen as
vulnerable shapes in a misunderstood spectrum.
They are dotted lines
dependent on right angles,
left ashtray to explain anomalies.

So for order we justify lines.
We contain music within them.
Until, of course, the Holy Ghost
is found. Because that strike
against the canvas is thought
to be premeditated.

But that isn't human nature.
That isn't God.
It will only become recorded
notes on a page.
It's retrospect.
A future remembrance of the past.
It's the Sun in your heart,
knowing that containing that
kind of energy is hazardous
to your health.

I killed myself.

A Tuesday. Fresh cut grass, the smell welcoming, as if to announce Spring and rebirth. Then you think of Hay Fever and laugh at the simplicity we hold for nature. Leave it. Don't branch off. Knock on wood.

I coughed on a stranger. It was unintentional. My apology was sincere, as was his vulgarity. Made me think: This ******* probably eats with his mouth open. Food flying. Spit soaring. An intentional imbecile. To be noted: If I see this man again, I will sneeze on him.

Fast food is absolutely disgusting, but there is an occasional craving. When you lift the top bun of a cheeseburger and it gets stuck to the cheese. That's all I have to say about that. The quality of the food has put us in a pickle.

I'm tired. I'm sure there is a mattress salesman close by to sell me a dream. What is my most comfortable thread count? Futon it is!

I haven't killed myself, yet, but I've died a long time ago.

But, dying and killing yourself
aren't one in the same.
The dead walk.
Ones who ****
idolize permanence.

Since adolescence
I have been an insomniac,
something sought after
these days,
by ignorance
masquerading itself as
open-mindedness.

An hour to me is not an hour to you.
The same standards apply,
only because those
restrictions can not be lifted.
Such a beautiful tragedy,
concerning a man made
mandate,
that dictates calendar years
and sixty second intervals.

The sound a scribble makes
at three in the morning is
a continuing story of dark circles
and ever slowly forming indentations
that are everlasting countenances.
The sound dead leaves make
as they're stepped on quickly
shows a path yet to be discovered,
leading to an uncovered face formed
by bark, mottled with sweat
as sweet as syrup.

A petrified face.
Covering a worn sponge.
One willing to grow and absorb.
A tired brain.
Swimming in Dextromethorphan.
Controlling a hand
that extends to yawn.

After counting
sixty sheep,
I'll start my next interval.
One nod to know
it worked.

This will be the best poem
I will ever write.

Who's to say if it will be my last, but one thing it is not is a first attempt at finding the right words to convey to you.

And finding the right words
has never been a challenge for me,
but ******* if you aren't giving me a run for my money presently, insufferable me with bleeding
tongue resentfully.

I say that word with an intrepid disposition, because I do not resent the person, but the action: The act of unwarranted silence.

I'd like to think you have a limpid conscience of the beautiful woman you are, at peace with yourself, when at the present time you are consumed with future maybes and counting seconds. So maybe adding myself to your equation was selfish, and brought complications when thinking about anything linear, considering all of the variables.

There was only intention to
rhapsodize the zealot I met on a mutual wavelength, a double helix we all share that some of us forget about, yet here is the reversion, the Neanderthal, the ******* who grew a beard to expose himself, looking at this whole experience all wrong.

Instead, there is Royal Purple Prose to look as extravagant as you are stunning.

Now all that's left is cognitive dissonance to later become
addictive retribution.

I could not produce a perfect sentence,
so instead I killed my family.
Intricate webs woven,
and little seeds planted.
Words that will not touch a page
let loose a vindictive voice.
That's why your inner voice
finds words like onomatopoeia funny;
it's sharp.

As you project your frustration
into a headache, it passes along.
You try to remember if your family
history has been linked to cancer.

Yet some people will say:
Words Don't Hurt.
But they know.
Because they once
had families, too.

Clock in with a swipe. Slash of the blade. Prefixed, eventually to become routine. God based routine. If any routine at all. Slash of the blade. Ring of the bell.*

We knew the Blue Marble was Hell. We created Hell. We needed it.

Time progressed, the swipe no longer needed; detached and vulnerable, time became an entity.
No one had time to swipe.

The axis the Blue Marble spun on, circulating, cultivating, breathing.

How does a marble breath?

How does a marble die?

Parasites.

We created Hell. We needed it.

A power struggle between animals is natural.

The exception is ego.

We lost eco over ego.

We created Hell.

And I needed it..

Self,
centered,
watching the world burn.
This calm is maintained by
expelling air in between each blink.
Glass is far in sight,
glasses cracked
and not foreseen,
because I'm not a seer.
Blanketed in ignorance,
wrapped: up tight.
Shelf this selfishness, I'm told.
So I consider this advice.
Rearranging the paperbacks.
Misplacing the first editions.
All the math in the world; variables
do not ease understanding
of long division.
So I'm left not right,
have never been alright,
and that is why being centered
is crucial for survival.
That is why becoming adaptable
isn't laughable
while watching the world burn.
It's having a cold disposition
to withstand the heat.

An idiot makes the same mistake twice.*

That "fatherly advice" is trapped
within my head,
bouncing back and forth,
causing a headache,
but who's to say that
the mistake isn't the cause
of pulsating temples and closed eyes.
In one ear and out the other,
one could hope for.
But these days it's in
one nostril and down the throat.
Down "****'s Creek" in a soluble boat.

But don't call home.
The heart left.
The telephone has been off the hook--
inanimate objects have it easy.

If I had known that I was going to
be the last man inside you, not long
before your last breath left your lungs
and escaped your body along with
your tortured soul, I would have saved
us both the time and trouble.
Let love be!
Oh naive me!
Of course we both knew the troubles
your mind conjured, and maybe my
lack of intimacy was torturous, however, not all of the sweating and
moaning could be forsaken,
as foreplay was eased into,
which was wrongly confused as
a careless flick of the wrist.
But I suppose you knew your body better, and could take yourself
places that no one else ever could
without having their arms
pulled behind the back
and secured tightly, because
when you flicked your
own wrist and became
wet and flush,
the only moaning you did was accompanied with wincing
eyes and curled toes.

Now I'm reading the newspaper,
and your name sticks out, screaming
at me, exclaiming riddles that you can
never answer. And the one that leaves
me the most unnerved is the one right
before me, becoming moistened by
misunderstood teardrops.

What is black and white
and red all over?

I ask you,
but I know now
that you can never again
answer my call.

So I'm left with only one of
two options, both of which
feel like a handful. I can delicately
place a flower atop your new
home among the rest, or
I can palm dirt as you are
slowly lowered down and
covered with the mound
that lay beside the congregation
that finishes their final goodbyes.

Racing thoughts are not an
internal contradiction.
It's not crying while laughing.
It most certainly is not an inept,
young adult that describes
their mood-swings as being "bipolar."
Don't fret,
because I will explain,
in depth.
At this given moment I can list pages upon pages of what it isn't. And that's the point, maybe, considering that these racing thoughts have created enough points to produce a stippling picture of an overall paranoia.

Four days into this headache, an unattainable inquiry is not reason.
It's not reason.
Not reason.
Not reason.

At this point in my life there is nothing to achieve by convincing strangers of my sanity. No matter how many times I may try and blink a person away, it just leaves me with tired eyes, and in the end, less credibility. I'm gasping for air with a plastic bag wrapped around my head, praying that my body can find peace and not twitch. But I'm fooling myself, like a friend, your friend. One that exclaims love and intimacy, but is given a kiss on the forehead, blocking my third eye.
Then after a tumultuous day of unknowing and racing thought, I'm left in a neurotic state, waiting for a cool down period before I'm left
toxic and unwanted.

No one in town knew his name. Generations have passed on, but he was still there. All they knew was the little house on the corner of Brindmore Street. It was a house covered by nature, once thought to be inhabited, but that was far from the truth. Edward Trake lived there; alone and delusional Edward was becoming claustrophobic.

He was now eighty-nine-years-old and had been a resident of the town More for eighty of those years. He worked in More, got married in More, settled in More, but never had children in More. His name would eventually die out, just like his marriage did when his wife Linda knew he was sterile. He forgave her after some time and heartache, but always thought of how things could have been different if he was able to conceive a child. He loved Linda; they got engaged and talked about children, both fond of a family life. After two years of trying they both decided to see a doctor and fix any potential problem. Linda was in full health and in her prime, Edward however was not. He was told he could not produce a child. A month later Linda left.

Linda eventually re-married and had the kids her and Edward had dreamed about. And although Edward was not the man to deliver Linda’s wants he became another father figure in her children’s lives. He became Uncle Edward and was involved in their lives as he would have been if they were his children. The only problem was that they weren’t his children. He was glad to be apart of their lives, but to him it felt like owning a house and sleeping outside. He had the convenience of being in their lives but nothing else. He could not help in their development, because at the end of the day he was just an outsider. Uncle or not he was nothing.

The last time he saw Linda or the children was one of the last times he left his home.

The argument started after Linda’s husband, Allen, had yelled at their seven-year-old Patricia for coming into the house covered in mud. Patricia was in the backyard playing house when she decided to make “mudpies.” Edward loved Patricia’s imagination and often fed into it, but her father was a strict man that lacked in creative thought. To him she was being disrespectful and needed to learn a lesson. The problem: Allen had his idea of discipline firmly cemented, which were lessons brought through physical contact and emotional suffering. Edward didn’t approve of smacking a child, whether they were wrong or right. He knew Linda felt the same way, especially after previous talks of future children they came to agreements on discipline. So, out of respect for Linda he felt that he had a right to step in. He thought the title of “Uncle” meant he could express opinions. Unfortunately he was wrong. After a few years of marriage Linda lost her right to have an opinion as well. Something about one being meek and something about inheritance.

“She was just playing, Allen.” Edward yelled over Allen’s intimidating voice.

“Mind yourself when you’re in my ******* house,” Allen screamed back, directing his attention to Edward. “This is not your child and you have no right to say anything. When you have your own children you can discipline them however you want. And since you can’t have children you should shut your **** mouth.”

Edward was fuming, “You think that’s fair? Do you think you can attack me personally like that?” Edward said while clenching his fists, “You’re something else, you know that? I feel sorry for you.”

“You feel sorry for me?” Allen erupted into laughter. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” Allen continued, “You come here and entertain my kids and wife because I got what you can’t have. I have a family, you loser. Why do you think my wife left you? Because you can’t have kids? No, it’s because you’re a loser. Now get the **** out of my house.”

Edward stood still. He was doing his best to stay calm, but Allen was hitting him where it hurt. He knew about his insecurities because he knew Linda’s past.

“I’m not leaving with you like this. I couldn’t care less about you, I’m here for the kids.” Edward said, still holding back his frustrations.

Allen looked at Edward in shock.
“I don’t know who you think you are, but you have two ******* seconds to leave my house. Now!”

Allen screamed while cracking his neck. He was ready for a confrontation with Edward.

“This is Linda’s house, too. In case you forgot.”

Allen charged after Edward. Edward stood still and when Allen drew near he reacted swiftly. Allen tried to hit him and missed. When Allen leaned back to throw a jab, Edward landed one clean punch to his jaw. Allen dropped to the floor and was out cold. Patricia ran out of the room screaming and crying, and Linda stood there in disbelief.

“Get out of my house,”
Linda’s monotone voice sending shivers down Edward’s spine.

“What?”

“Get out of my house now, Edward.”

“But-I-but...I was trying to stop him.”

“You have no right. You need to leave.”

“Linda, I know you don’t mean this.”

“I do, and you’re not welcome here anymore,” Linda said through teary eyes.
“You should go before Allen wakes up.”

“If I leave now I won’t be back.”

“I know. Now go before he wakes up.”

Linda walked to the front door, opened it, and stood beside waiting for him to leave. He looked at her and they both had tears running down their cheeks, silently sobbing. He walked toward her and they stood there, speechless. He tried to speak, but found it impossible. He leaned in, and kissed her cheek, then stumbled over his feet as he walked out. She stood at the door as he walked off. After five steps he turned around to see her still standing by the door.

He stared at her for a minute, which felt like an eternity, before he found his voice.
“I still love you,” he finally said.

“I don’t love you. I have Allen.”

“I know that’s not true.”

“Edward, you’re not my husband. Allen is and you need to accept that. *******, you can’t keep doing this to me.”

“I was your husband, Linda. I love you, and I know you still love me.”

“You’re mistaken,” She said through tears, “Now go. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

He walked off and never looked back. He knew he was out of line, and couldn’t put her through this. He walked off and never had the chance to see if she saw him walk off into the distance. When he vanished from her view he also vanished from society. He felt his life was pointless without having Linda and her children in his life.

At the age of eighty-nine he decided he couldn’t dwell on this incident anymore. He lived a long life, maybe not the happiest of lives, but a long life nonetheless. He went into his bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed. He was staring into the prescription bottle help firmly in his wrinkled hands. His sleeping pills were his fate. Twenty pills would give him the sleep he has been searching for. He wanted to leave this life through sleep and enter the next life feeling fully awakened.

He took his medication, not recommended by his doctor, and rested his head for the last time.

One week after his death he had a visitor. It was the first visitor he had in over thirty years.

Unaware that the man she was looking for was dead, Patricia knocked on the front door and eventually left. Before leaving she left a letter in his mailbox.

Dear Edward,

You not might remember me, but you were at one time involved with my mother. My mother, Linda spoke very highly of you. After my parents divorced she was hesitant to contact you, and she wasn’t sure if you were still around anymore. I loved the times we would have when she would talk about her youth, and your name was always brought up. I believe I heard your name said more than my own father’s name. I spent the rest of my years wondering where the man my mother was so fond of ended up. After a few years I was able to reach a few people that led me in the right direction. When I told my mother what I was doing she was very supportive and wanted to know every detail as it came along. Unfortunately she passed on before I could find you, but I know that her will is still as strong as it was when I told her about my decision to find you. In Heaven or on Earth I know she would be delighted that we could have the chance to reconnect. I’m sorry if this is too big of a shock to you, but I knew deep in my heart I had to find the man that was so special to my mother. I hope you are well and this letter is still significant after all of these years. And thank you for being by my mom’s side through her worst even though she wasn’t aware it was at the time. I am grateful even if she wasn’t at the time. I hope we can meet soon.

*Sincerely, Patrica.

Inward apathy is not
to be confused with
sociopathic credence.
It's a blade held to the throat
of the man that wields it.
Never would the cold steel touch
the person who thinks of suicide
as cowardice, but believes bravery
to be disillusionment in the form
of medication, or speaking up and out
offering solutions to problems
that they do not know the variables
that come along with it.

How many teeth make up a smile?
How many lines form a frown?
If lines are infinite,
what does that tell you about
an expression that is countered by
obligatory inquisitive ambivalence.

Shoulders are for tears.
Spines are for intrepidness.
Skin is layered; tough and thick
no matter benevolent or malevolent,
a person's love is misconstrued
as skin deep, albeit it is formed
between synapses.

It's a spark, a fire, the intuition
to never say goodbye
and ignore accountability.

Why do you do the things you do*

You ask.

But I'm stuck
on the beat of your words.
One syllable quips
following one another.
And I
STOP
         Pushed aside, you tremble.
My smile doesn't help.
I was a fool to think it ever did,
in circumstances such as these.
But to be fair, I haven't done
anything wrong.
I was only asked why I am...
me.
And to that, I have no answer.
Better to speculate.
Because the heavy lifting
required would be better if
you backed out.
Lest you through your back out.

What if you're the addict that has accepted the first step a long time ago, while lines tallied up against years, and once familiar folk have given up hope long after patience; there's you first squatting in the corner of a house you barely know, with people you just met, and you shoot water in your veins, now on bent knees, praying this water is holy enough to ease the pain. The immaculate fix.

Arms outstretched, facing east and west, needles as big as nails delicately caressing the flesh and resting on sweaty palms, emaciating by way of lust and fear. No Will. No Power of Attorney. No Will Power.

They say Adam walked with Eve in the garden, and it was Eve that bit the apple. But you never hear the part about Adam killing Eve with silence. Adam was the snake. And of course above, and beyond, omnipotence comes with the added responsibility of design. "Would you consider yourself a Type A personality or a Type B personality?" The doctor asked.

One suicide and one admission to the psych ward should always be coincidental, but in case it's not and silence becomes deadly you must keep a straight face. Let the guilt mentally choke you, like a murderer choking the life from their victim. You look around the ward to find that there are no staircases. But empathy and keeping that straight face will lead to discharge, and programs, and twelve steps.
And you know when you get to that final step, it takes only one more
to push off and fall away.

This bar of soap
has been in my mouth
for far too long.
Foul words do not become encapsulated by bubbles,
nor does bubble language follow intrinsic guidelines as much
as it may be visceral.
In all actuality it is simple chalk
on simple sidewalks
that wait for gray clouds to release their collective and
wash away the different
colors into a storm drain
that teenagers throw garbage into.

At this point it's knowing
which soap tastes the best,
and hoping and praying that
a single curly hair is not lingering.

What I do take,
makes tomorrow.
Goodbyes, do not happen,
until the next day.
Closed eyes.
Goodbyes.
Until next times.
Why sleep,
only to wake in analysis.
Red eyes; because sleep is
for death.
When your arms go numb,
you find release.
Dark circles.
Light moans.
Sleep deprivation.
Self deprecation.
REALationships.
A man stuck in the clouds,
because walking on solid ground,
will eventually become worn;
cracks form
and spread,
and that is time.
Time makes no mistake.
Time shows the etch lines,
sketched in a face.
The rings on a log.
The ***** jewel.
Words that still resonate.

Buckled at the knees, face in the dirt,
one can only pray for enlightenment, but
at a time when morality is valued by
silver and gold,
a baton twirled
is mightier than the sword dipped in ink
and sprawled across ancient parchment.
Men march in unison, into foreign lands,
while chanting words of a dead language:
Democratia Sit Virtus

Flag inserted into the land, the
obligatory explanation is written
on paper, covered with black marks, in soot.
Erupt in glory, a city once was.
Redacted sentences are had for
good reason:
to keep characters in the dark.
Transparency is only a concept that
belongs on the back of a bookmark.
Dust covers
clouds and envelopes the sky,
as dark and as black as superstition.

We speak with symbols, because subliminal
advertising becomes cogitative rather than
entering one ear and leaving the other.
What belongs in the border is bold, as we
marginalize open space, although the occasional
proverbial foot will cross the line. A slash of the
throat will tell you that all eyes are dotted,
just as some lines are crossed.
Like an olive branch exposed as thorns.

A proper medium is exploiting
vulnerability under rule.
Hot air is expelled when converting oxygen,
or exclaiming honesty and integrity;
lest we forget land comes from sea.
It is in their nature; our nature to build
roots underground.
Better to keep intricacies hidden.
Never is an iceberg fully exposed.
A brain.
The Temple.
Certainly a vault.

What you keep from the people
is for the people.
And common ground is neither
left nor right,
despite what you've been made
to believe.
It's about the courage
to think before you speak.
It's the courage it takes
to gather strength and
beseech the weak.