Chapter 3
Positive Reinforcement
by Johnny Utah

bio of human development with a theory vocabulary
Timeless COGNITIVE LEARNING of God and without pretense,

Long live Capitalist
A rusty blade to the King
& don’t save the Queen
need more pennies

by Arthur  B.L. FOP

Looks as though the heavens have finally released the weight of the stars to the ground
As I marvel at this, a twinge of fear arises. In this modern age I warn humanity to not let the computer think for you.
being murdered by a knife is more painful than any other weapon
tools to assist in our quest for knowledge, but in a culture of instant gratification they can be easily abused
Essentially if people do not sufficiently exercise their own mental capacities mangling nuance out-of-order

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy and from the second Jigsaw Workshop

I will love the idea of what I will be
“I used to believe that I could find the light in anyone;
In me I lost the ability to see the light.”

I love and hate me

BUT

There is a time to let go.
Humans are also stardust.
Wrangling all the stars into our own constellations

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy and in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH

I can’t handle all these choices.
like wishes of dandelions
“Please pay attention to me.”
“These can’t be saved.”
Here and there,
Nowhere.

If there’s a reason
It’s lost on me
Let this run its course

When I found the one dark road
a knowing glance

You’ve reached the deepest part
The splendor of the stats.

Moonlight floods my window,
I shouldn’t be so tired

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy and in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH

by Evan Spooner

I am talking with my friend
Saying over & over
to join me

but my mind told me
at the end. there was only space

for thoughts.

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy


 
by Evan Spooner

approach
ask
without a word
 
by Evan Spooner

These people call this Faith,
bring them to my table
the next bit of gospel
I wrote on a napkin.

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
 
by Evan Spooner

I’m dying the other five
Quite possibly
It may hide all
it’s a mask My head
modified,

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy

 
by Evan Spooner

Sometimes
I never really expect anything
In return


Nothing
Left

The Traveler
by C

I like to play on the relationship between color and perception.
I find that it brings
a subtle emotion out from within.
Like a woman looking to hitch a ride.
“Might I please step inside?”
The woman asks as she stands in the night
“You may have a place here, if you so inquire, but you may find it a clearer journey if you cross some other way. I have nothing, but hate inside this place here.”
“Do not worry about my being,” she says solemnly as she slowly walks through my door.
What is she after?
No one could possibly find it here.
She’ll probably come across it.
Long after she leaves this place.

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy

by C

Down to the soft earth
for no greater inner rapture
as the sight of you sleeping

Together, we can face anything
Life throws our way

then that joy is not one known by me
forcefully ripping out my raw emotions,

i spit blood

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy

by C

When you’re buried
You see the face
a mask
i spit blood
when things were trying to hurt us.
All I know how to do is Here
It is my job to be God
Live like you might as well be dead

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy

Can You See?

Whose soul your steady breath does reward
For but only existing on this heavenly plane
I wish you would open up to me!
See all I can as well?
but you don’t see it this way.
as most probably not.

If so Maybe I can convince you,
Maybe I can show you,
how true I could possibly be.

Unfortunately, you will not hear me out,
it seems I’ll have to forever shout.
but please,
believe in me

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy

by Evan Spooner

There was nothing
you could do
there was no way you could
stop it

Memories come flooding back
Nothing, but ***** water
Something to filter out
Recover from
Start anew

That doesn’t stop my feet
Sloshing through the muck
The sickening suction sounds
As I try to pull away
Moving, but staying in one spot

Surveying the damage
What all is there to save?
Funny how one flood
Sick inches of remember when
Can destroy so much

I’m still plodding on
One foot in front of the other
One step at a time
Each moment takes an eternity to feel

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy

by Amy C. Smith

A calm,
Comfortable spirit
Blew around him.
Her hands,
Strong at his back.
Whilst Amber feathers glowed from hers.

The Angel:
Strong,
Pure,
And True.

With just a hint
Of the impending Autumn.

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy

by Fiaura

My ex-husband, his name is Gary
I still have his last name; never say it publicly
I’m publicized in the furry community yearly
Now working side by side with talented murk suited dancers
Because I’m honestly addicted to their hip huggers

Their suit-stuffs stays
The people leave them as strays
I’ve been given too much to even array!

Gary lived in the same house I had to leave
One day, I followed a dancer to the place my heart grieves
The outside the same, the inside a total change
The question is do I stay and heal or do I leave and deal.

Under Steer
by StuGLyfe

I don’t usually mind the winter; I try to imagine who is the boss,
Sick satisfaction knowing that I am the most macho
“You press that button kid, you die today.”
The car slides and spins around
Crunch
“Everyone feels that way sometimes.”
The car is stuck.
lamenting the pain as my mind expands
Looked like the thunder god had an ******, then set the lake on fire
“DIVORCE!”, the boss exclaimed.
as I dreamt of my relationship with my father.

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy

Finish
by StuGLyfe

I destruction of the self is intolerable,
Everyone tells me
To destroy myself is acceptable,

I have enough to finish it all now
But myself and my self will be finished

I see a weak and pathetic child
Terrified of the ever changing world around them

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy

by Fiaura

Six bullets to the heart, six separate, devastating phrases that brought about Armageddon. I gave her a decade of my meager existence, nearly half my life. She threw me away like garbage, and I couldn’t have been happier.

For I am like shattered jasper.
In briefest moment of rapture
An insight to the soul one cannot rapture
The ending moment so fleeting
The clarity when the heart stops beating
A rush of air, expands my mind back to this planet

I have been broken, then fixed,
Stitched, yet glitched,
Whole yet scarred
I am alive.

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy

by Cam

I often welcome sleepwalking through most of the week
But today I will not let you be a zombie
But You’ll never be rid of this poison

Additional content assembled from works by Ryan P. Kinney

by Iven Idaho

Autonomy: Let’s be honest, I can’t wait for self-driving automobiles; You **** as driver
So don’t be late, Learn to be a self-driving automobile
PLEASE RSVP BY MAY 1, 2091.

Additional content assembled from works in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH

Elements
by StuGLyfe, Evan Spooner, Callan, Lauren, Michelle Galimarini, Fiaura the Tank Girl, Amy C. Smith, and Anonymous attendees

The sun
Sets and rises
For them
And nothing more

Bang. In both my ears.
Drip-Drop, Sweat in both my eyes.
Burns, against my face.

It builds inside, deep in my gut
Rapturous, *******, delightful.
Roasting me alive, torturous.
Everything burns away

People are like Molecules.
Pinging against each other.
With Every Action we take,
Ripples form around us
A smile here,
Encouragement there,
And the world becomes ever brighter

It wasn’t the wave of water that got him
It was the twenty small baby crocodiles
Carried in the wave.

With the wind blowing harshly,
I will sleep like a glutton sloth
Nothing can get past me, but the breeze
Even time will halt at the flick of my wrist.
Nothing, but cool air, I know this
Will penetrate through my concrete spirit.

I run you through my hands
You were once solid
Then you were mine
Broken down to bits and pieces
And reassembled
Into something new

Hello mother
breathing under
me
I see
you all around
comfortable, beautiful, magical, round
The cycle of life
it must be nice
for you
but for me
I must go now

The light of the moon is so bright
It blinds me.
Sometimes the day rushes past me
And before I realize it, it’s night

We recharge everything
Our cars, our phones, our gaming consoles
When the battery is low
But we won’t recharge ourselves
When our energy is drained
And nothing is left in our hearts and souls

What if;
Those little specks you see flying in the air
When light passes though dust
Are all alive

What if;
They are all angels,
Gods,
Souls of lost ones

Echoes of our own thoughts, memories, ideas
Feelings;
Here, there
Forgotten, Cherished;
Never fully formed

Just made of all the bits and pieces
Of all the Worlds’ minds
Waiting for us to put them together
And make them real


Inspired by
the second iteration of FRONT International, a multivenue exhibition that embraces art as an agent of transformation, a mode of healing and a therapeutic process. The title is an homage to the 1957 poem “Two Somewhat Different Epigrams” by Langston Hughes.

Excerpt from Two Somewhat Different Epigrams (1957):
Oh, God of dust and rainbows, help us see
That without dust the rainbow would not be.

I slam my truck into park
Swing open the door
And hit the ground before the door is fully open
I let the momentum shut the door for me

Here I stand
At dusk
In the empty, silent sunset
Scrounging the encroaching night to create.
Rending from the darkness, the light of imagination.

It’s Spring Cleanup Day
i.e. Trash Picking Night
Where I gather my next year of possibilities,
Where I can make something new
Out of what was left of last year

I hum an improvised out-of-tune,
“Something old
Something new
Something broken
Something blue
Something to love
Someone to love.”

Gloves are a necessity, leather; cut, but never stab resistant -
You may open a bag
But never leave a bigger mess than you started with.

The broken TV will become the next costume piece.
The old dolls; sad, one-armed, legless action figures will become delightful new monstrosities.
The rusty tools
Will build my next dreams…
And wood, Oh so much wood
Enough to salvage for the hodge podge machine that will sail into the next fantasy

There are enough clothes
To shield an entire shanty town,
Enough blankets to keep every animal warm
In the shelter down the road

These old photos have stories -
People in them
No less important because of their age.
Their wrinkles will now become another fold in my story.

Those cans of old paint
Will color my next experiment
Will add a tint of reality to tangible madness.

I don’t see waste -
I see the opportunities we were never allowed
I see the future in your past.
A chain from then to now,
Out on the front lawn
Bags full of history
Are asking me to read them

Sometimes I’m called the Junk Man,
Hanging onto things that should be forgotten
Buried; left to the past,
But, instead I take it all with me
Within me.
I’ll shine your tarnish into something beautiful
Just so you can see, in your reflection,
That you were beautiful all along
You just needed someone to care.

Having lost everything
I’ll still take anything
And anyone
My people are another I’ve picked,
Discarded by a careless consumer
Who could not see their splendor

The clouds begin to gather
But it has not started to rain yet
And I’m still going.

This road only has one way to go.
The only way there ever is to go.
Just keep moving forward
Never go back
Never stop
Just notice what is there
And take all you can use with you.

These discards, useless to their owners
Decided that they no longer had value
I can make them into anything.
I can find a use for anything
For anyone.
Their trash is a treasure
It still has value
I still have value.

No matter how many times I’ve been thrown away
I’ll still make something out of myself.

Finally, the rain begins to fall
Flowing through the rust holes in my truck
Scrambling to soak my pilfered obsessions
Washing all of our sins
Onto the pavement beneath my feet

Patchwork Dreams
by Aaron Kasunic, Amanda Whitlock, Morgann Blackwood, J.M. Romig, Ryan P. Kinney, and Valentine Berlin

The block is killing me
A million thoughts stopped by a lacking syllable
The start
Could it be? Should it be?
I’ll fill the silence with doubt
Waiting for the right sound
While the deadline looms...

These dreamers in my mind have stopped dancing,
Tired of waiting for the music:

Paint splashes grayscale
Patches together in swatches
Blending to erase the boundaries
I never follow anyway
It’s been years since
My guidelines were straight
Enough to stay inside
Yet it’s where
I prefer to be

I’ve been poor, so poor
That harvesting cigarette butts to squeeze the tobacco out
Was the only way to smoke
So poor that i had to carve a pipe out of a carrot
To smoke that tobacco
Yes, I’ve been poor
Poverty is a misery, but I’m crafty
So-so living, those problems
Making do is how I survive
Yes, I’ve been poor
And I carry the scars to prove it

Loop. Swoop. Pull.
Nope.
Loop. Swoop. Pull
Still no.
Mom’s getting fed up
I’m sorry.
I just can’t do it.

I race through the shop door
The natural light stings my wet eyes
And the chill stops me for an instant
My mother screams behind me,
“Get the **** out of here.”
I am sobbing, finding it difficult to breathe
As I choke down mucus and blood
My lip is already starting to swell
Tomorrow, she will try to bribe my forgiveness with some useless object
Another ******* worthless sentiment
From a parent who never stopped being a child

So soggy... everything...
The grass, the hay, the sky
And my crotch- presently soaked in blood.
Two periods in one month!!
YAY for me.
Soggy... everything.

Jesus died
Because I am a sinner
I’m on my knees
For the fifth time this week
Trying to find my salvation
On this bathroom floor
Penetrated by the needle
Full of bubbling holy light

I’m drunk and so ****** out right now
There is no God
If there was
He would have saved me
Or atleast given me a bigger ****

Before the arthritis set in,
I could grab a ****,
They called them “handys” back then,
And I was very accomplished.
My grip was magical
And Old Faithful would quietly make a show.

I’m as dead as America in the Fall
The dead-eyed liberal zombies are coming
To knock down the walls of my panic room
Picketing my rights
If they had half a brain
They’d put down those signs
And pick up a gun

It’s already past 11.
The kids are long since asleep
I quietly stick the key in the lock
And try to open the door without the usual creak
I drop my briefcase in the hall
As though the full weight of 70 hour work weeks were stored within
I loosen my tie and walk to the fireplace
There I spot the kids, dead to the world on the couch
“Waiting for Santa”
He’s finally here!
As I bend to slide another present under the tree

Memory corrupted
Trying to recover
Installing... Installing
Installing the good data. Recover the bright.
Installing... Installing
Deleting viruses. Replace corrupted data.
Installing... Installing
Waiting for completion
In-
Stalling...
Ready to carry on
In
Stalling....

Plato’s Paradox
by Ryan Kinney

What if Plato was right?
And there are eternal truths
Ethereal knowledge that exists independent of humans
Just waiting for us to grasp

What if all knowledge was the not the product of human ingenuity?
But just our ability to latch onto these truths.
We can reach and hold them,
But never with our hands
Feel them,
But never touch them

What if he was right?
But off by a few millennia
Maybe it was a prophetic vision
Just waiting for technology to catch up
Some access code or binary formula
That taps us into ultimate knowledge

What if you could instantly know anything you wished?
And substitute lifetimes of training
For a momentary flash
Bach and Bruce Lee
Socrates and Einstein
Lennon and Nietzsche
All their skill, yours with ease

What if you knew everything?
Nothing would be out of your reach
Would you become a god among men?
Or covertly use your power to reign?
Would you be a benevolent benefactor?
And teach instead?
Would you share your knowledge?
Would you share your power?

Or would it drive you insane?
Madness that only a genius could know.
With no questions left to answer.
Would, why I exist?
Haunt your existence.

Would life lose its flavor?
Would you spend your life bored?
Obsessed with trying to locate something you don’t know
Only to realize it’s all been done

Would your heart be left twisted and wrung dry?
As your mind grew.
Would you scar yourself?
Or stand in the freezing rain.
Just to remember what it was like to feel.
Would you allow knowledge to make you cold and bitter?

Would you allow it to make you a monster?
An immoral beast who did only because he couldn’t be stopped?
If absolute knowledge corrupts,
Would you lose your humanity?
At the very moment you understood what it meant to be human?

What if you could know anything you ever wanted?
What’s stopping you?

And then the quiet sneaks in again

I was not made for the quiet

I was not meant to sink slowly into the darkness of some corn field

I am to be seen and heard

Somebody notice me

by Ryan P. Kinney
Assembled from works by J.M. Romig and Chuck Joy

I glance out of my driver’s side window
and see a boy
trudging miserably down an expanse of windswept prairie
big sky, maybe one persistent contrail up there
establishing the general era, airplanes fly
People, still, do not

a road crosses this windswept prairie
a dirt path really with twin ruts
a boy came walking up that road many years ago
homesick from summer camp
he couldn’t be without his mother

If time is fluid, like the oceans
then maybe I’m glancing over as a wave breaks
I couldn’t tell you how many times
I made that journey on foot
my heels throbbing, my legs begging to be broken
my hitchhiker’s thumb, had given up all hope at that point

Later a teenager passed in the other direction
his essence radiating awkwardness
this long haired kid,
just turned thirteen
wore hand me down boots that are too big for his feet,
ripped jeans, and a bookbag slung across his shoulder
in the dying days of July
whispering under his breath
maybe reciting poetry
or telling himself a story
running fast, he couldn’t wait for his bright future

I think about giving him a ride
to wherever I may be going
where more drive than ride
some have stopped driving, for various reasons
some lose the ability to drive before they pass

but then I remember all the lessons I’ve learned
from time-travel movies
the one universal rule being not to meddle with the past
something about a butterfly’s wings flapping in Beijing
and a tsunami in New Orleans
so, instead I honk my horn
and the traffic light turns green

I watch the boy,
who might have been in some distant past,
look on with curious anger as the car passes
for a moment
then returns to the story already in progress

not much traffic on this path anymore
but yesterday a guy came by riding a Segway
said he was on the way to visit his mother’s grave
said she died a pioneer to this lonely country

he grows tinier and tinier
in my rear view mirror
no longer even special
here in the middle of nowhere
until he is yesterday again

Relics (House of Stolen Light)
by Ryan P. Kinney

When I pull up in my battle-scarred truck
That old song is playing on the radio
Whose lyrics I have misheard and, hell…
“Who did that **** song, anyways?”
Nonetheless, of what I do hear through the cracks and pops,
It definitely suits this house

It’s an old run down bi-level, with a winding porch
And more windows than walls
But the windows are heavily tinted and shades are all half drawn
The windows do not let the light into the home,
But rather steal it, consume it into the darkness, never to be seen again

How many neighborhood rumors revolved around this home?
For how long has it been whispered that THIS is THAT haunted house?
Or this is where that one creepy guy did that one horrific thing?
Or even that series of horrific things?

Did the boogie man originate here?
Inside the darkness of that house, stealing the sunshine from precocious little boys and girls
Finally freed from the confines of scholastic imprisonment
Until eventually their days of play started getting shorter
And they return to their nine months of confinement
With no one to blame but the invisible tenant of that ever decaying, but seemingly indestructible and insurmountable home

I imagine a stone in my hand
To be thrown into this house of glass
I picture it not breaking the glass so much as piercing a pool of darkness, that ripples across the entire house, melting each window and finally freeing everyone’s abducted childhoods
I see the sunlight exploding from the foundation
The cracked, brown leaves in every dead, broken tree suddenly springing to life and filling with green
Years of devoured Frisbees, kites, and baseballs launching into the air from every crevice

And then, I think, maybe appearances can be deceiving
Maybe, this house is not so much the spooky old ruin
But rather a cracked and worn old photo album
Housing years of relics of lives spent well and with love
Love that our generation could not possibly fathom
Devoid of the electronic means of expressing and spreading it

How many boys turned men turned soldiers here?
How many mothers turned grandmothers, turned cherished memories?
How many years were cried over scrapped knees and first loves?
Or spent on lover’s lanes, backyard barbeques, and drunken sibling brawls?
Is that old tire finally getting its deserved rest from someone’s swing, or off the wheels of a well-loved ancestor to my vehicle?
Who’s lives and legends were parked in this dusty driveway?
Who’s footprints am I standing in right now?

Maybe those dark windows never really robbed the light
But, rather were meant to hold it in for the love growing inside
So that anyone within would always feel its warmth and brightness
And anytime someone left that house, they returned that light to the world in kind
Richer and brighter than it ever would have been had it not spent its time within those walls

Who are you, oh house of stolen light?
What secrets do you hold?
How many childhoods were used up here, either stolen or spent fully?
What lives have you had?
What adventures can you tell me?

I smile.
“This is gonna be fun.”
As I kick in the front door

Soul Blind Pt. 2
by Ryan P. Kinney

"Dad, Why do you look like you're crying?"

"Oh, you know. Sad things."

"Don't be sad, be happy."

"Both of those are always about you."

"Why?"

"Because when you are not here, I'm sad."
"When you are, I'm happy."

Inspired by Vicki Acquah (Mama Oladeji)

God Save the Queen
Long live the King
Hail to the Chief
The Lord of all Lies

I dredged the swamp
For the bombs bursting in air
Oh, say can you see
That justice is blind
That we are all color blind
When all you can see is
The White Hot dawns early light
That might means right
Always fight with the Son at your back
And the darkness in your soul
But don’t be black?
That’s worth the bullets whizzing past
A soldier’s job is never done
Never won
A draft dodger’s never run
Never One
With the multiplicity of our multi-ethnicity
Of a nation of fools
That elects a derelict jester
Who taunts our puppet strings
Strikes the chords of the lamentations of our hearts
Heartless *******!
We are no longer whole
Just a sinking hole
A pit of despair
That stares back at us
Look up
Look down
Stay down
Lock down
Look out!
Here it comes
As above, so below
The devil’s in the details
That are reduced to black and whites
We are weapons of mass confusion
Taking aim
Hiding behind His Wall
To build a nation of prisoners
Too afraid to yell out our battle calls
To seek retribution for our disillusion
To clear up the noise pollution
And fall on our knees
To take a knee
Because we NEED
We are a world of truth benders
Rule breakers
Criminal instigators
Unforeseen fornicators
Ego MasterBaiters
Serial verbal defecators

We are nothing
No One
No where
Just present
At this moment in history
When we realized we ****** up
Hindsight was blind sided
Blinded by the light
Speckled with red, white, and bruises
Masks of shame
That we were complicit in our own downfall
The Fall of Man
The blood is on our hands
Be cause we did not stop
When we knew we could
Because we thought No, meant yes
And that she didn’t really mean it
And Boys will be boys
With their unruly lethal toys
That cuts through what was Right
And Left US divided

Sleep, sweet child
I’ll watch over you
Even after my eyes have worn out
And I’ve leaked the last of my plastic pellets

I watched over your father
Even though, for awhile
I was lost to him
Because of the original corruptor

But, I came home
And brought back
The last shred of good from his childhood

I’ll keep the monsters
Under the bed
And in the closet
I will turn on the light
I will be there
Long after I’m gone

Assembled by Ryan P. Kinney
From works by Gabriella Ercolani, Dr. Benjamin Anthony, Heather Munn, Vicki Acquah, Tanya Pilumeli
Additional original content by Ryan P. Kinney

Bewildered is the conscience of a dancer
whose unified self wishes to remain true
to a lover,
to family,
a social circle.
Yet a facet of the face must make love
to the masses;
each hungry audience that idolizes the mask,
she slowly exposes.

Then he saw the little movements where her belly was and now were taut muscles barely holding back guts and little faces with eyes shut snakes tiny tongues clicking, tails wrapping around

Atlantic waves
Soothing
Tsunami crashes; my mental health strews memory about like road sand.

A child asks for two dollars
To help me from his heart-
My maintenance software
Opens to error messages-
"Man pushes glasses up
On his nose-incidentally";

Resistance subdued
Take her then
Junk in the corner
She's worthless to me

This is no kindness in this man.
He is gluttony incarnate.
Consumption just to flaunt his aristocracy to the peasant.

You enter the world empty-handed and you will leave it empty-handed.

Assembled by Ryan P. Kinney
From works by Russ Vidrick, Connie Kopko Kramer, MaxWell Shell, Lennart Lundh
Additional content from Saga of the Swamp Thing vol. 1

At dawn
It is more interesting
The sparrows sing

That cloud looks like the starship Enterprise: a vessel of hope and discovery; a vapor. This sweet potato destined for the curry’s a carp: Japanese-lucky, walleye-man’s curse. And the cross-cut carrot? It ain’t an iris, a hint about eye-health. Friends, it’s just fun: not science, not God. Also, it’s dinner.

A fountain of youthful talent chemically imbalanced.
...with a grey skull full of He-man.

The road behind them curls
like a river taking the easy way,
not really caring where it goes
as long as it's someplace else.

The sky’s aflame. He skulks back to his mud, his ferns and stones. It is unease he feels, without a name, or merely autumn gnawing at his bones. The things of shadows vanish with the night. Worse horrors still are (may be) heralded by light.

Snow Day
by Ryan P. Kinney

“God ******* ******.”
The car is stuck.
Forward or Reverse
The tires just spin,
Taunting me
White powder, fluffy on top, but thick and heavy at the bottom, is piled above the hood

“This ******* thing’s not going anywhere”
Now what?

Another of Ohio’s freak snow storms,
In April.
Winter’s one last *******,
A send-off, reminding us that he’ll be back

My cavalier is no match for several feet of snow
And I’m stuck two miles from home

I don’t usually mind the winter
I like the variety
I love the calm the white blankets bring
Silencing and hiding all the filth of our careless summer decadence
It’s a splendor I’ll never be able to create
A peace I will never know

But today,
Winter’s ******* me
Please, just not today
April 25th
Her day

I glance around
I left my phone at home too
I didn’t want to hear from anyone
No one telling me, “It’ll be ok.”

I have to get out of here
I can’t sit here
Winter’s trying to stop me
Slow me down
Nothing stops me,
Catches me
If I stop, I think
The cold catches up with me
I catch up with myself

I click on my flashers
“I guess I’m walking.”

I open the door and immediately am assaulted by a frigid gust
I crunch into the snow and realize,
Water Resistant does not mean Water Proof

I close the door with a loud thud,
Look ahead,
And resign myself to a miserable walk,
Hoping that the angered flush in my face keeps me warm

I begin walking,
One step at a time
My head is cast to the ground
Each time I try to look up,
My head gets knocked right back down

My mind wanders to the scheduled routine of the day.
“I’m not making it to work”

I look back at my car
The door I just slammed is already buried
In a few minutes all that will be left is a couple of blinking lights,
Fading into the background

I remember how much I used to love snow days as a kid
Now it just means I could lose my job
I’ve been on thin ice for the last year
My work has suffered
My heart is not in it anymore
My heart is not in anything or anyone anymore

I just don’t care
The only reason I’m still there is a desperate need to cling to something stable
Something,
Anything,
The house that she left me with
That car,
That thing that represented freedom since I was 16
When I first asked her to be mine
Which is now a rusting death trap,
Stagnant and immobile on this wasteland road in the middle of nowhere

I wouldn’t be surprised if my job wasn’t already drafting my termination letter
How the hell am I going to pay my mortgage?
Or for that car I apparently need?

A violent artic chill hits me in the chest
Penetrating my jacket
And blowing right through me
Trying to rob me of any warmth I have left
“Tough luck, ya *******. You won’t find much there.”

I look where I’ve been again,
Following the chill with my eyes
My car is long since gone,
A memory, hidden beneath a curtain of iridescence
My footprints disappear the moment I make them
Any evidence of my every struggle
Gone before I can make another move

Before me is an unpainted canvas of nothing
A void, so much more ominous than the blackness of night
The white,
The light
Promises more than it ever has to offer
She’s a cruel lover
Who will let you in
Expand into your pupils,
Make you think you are seeing for the very first time
She will explode into your mind
And fill you with the euphoria of hope

But, it’s a lie
She wipes the slate clean
And decides,
This canvas was never meant to be painted on.
At least, not by me

Better to have the black.
It may hide all the horrors and fears of childhood
But, it’s honest
It never offers false altruistic promises
Sure, it’s a mask
But, no more than my own face
Pretending that it does not crack in the mirror

My steps are getting harder now
Ice has encased my work boots
My toes have long since ceased any feeling
And my face stings with every gust

I can only inch forward,
One foot at a time,
With every ounce of my will

Religion says, it is in these times
When Jesus walks with you
(or whatever deity)
My footprints vanish before I can make them
I certainly see no others beside me
Even he gave up trying to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders
Atlas shrugged,
And all I got were two broken vertebrae

“Why the hell am I still trying?”
“Nothing I do makes a difference”
“Come and get me now,
I’M HERE.” I scream

If Kubrick could see me now,
His little cockroach would be laughing it’s *** off
At the futility of this scene.

A single tear slides down my check
Warm and harsh against the bitter cold
I haven’t been able to cry since she left
Just numb,
So cold…
Void of anything, but hurt

I take a deep breathe
That hurts too
I can’t remember what it’s like not to hurt

I’m still plodding on
One foot in front of the other
One step at a time
Each moment takes an eternity to feel

I should just let go
And fall

When the thaw comes
They’ll find an empty car
With its lights flashing
And an even emptier person
With no light left in him

Why did she do this to me?
Why the **** am I always left alone?
Why am I always so ******* cold?

A salty torrent begins to burn my face
Mucous slides into a week’s worth of stubble

I can’t do this.

As I say this,
Feel this,
Finally feel anything…
I slow
The weight in my heart getting heavier with every step

I’m still moving

In the distance,
Partially shrouded in a cascade of flurries
I begin to make out something of familiarity;
My driveway
Behind it I see my porch,
And a maroon door
My home finally comes into view
The lights are still on

Somebody Take Me
by Ryan P. Kinney and J.M. Romig

You shook me up
And poured out my mind
Cooked me ‘til I crystallized
Crushed me up and smoked me

You got high on my experiences
Took my stories into your body
You loved it

Then the bad trip came crashing in
The heartbreaks, the beatings,
The suicidal thoughts
I made you paranoid, cynical, and distrusting
Every loss peppered with a smile
Each warm, glowing moment
Tainted with the debauchery of the act

You’ll pay for all this in rehab
Blood and tears diluted with stale coffee and ****** cigarettes
(They all taste the same)

Go ahead, Detoxify.
Spit me out
No matter how you try to purge
You’ll never be rid of this poison

by Ryan P. Kinney

“Daddy, Why is your porch stuff gone?”
Because the people who own this building don’t have any soul
“My Sunday school says everyone has a soul.”
Son, there’s a difference between having a soul and having soul.
-Same word-Different meaning
Having soul means being able to see beauty
And some people just can’t see

Every time I close my eyes I watch a 1000 tragedies pass before them
This is the curse of those with the unimaginable imagination
Every worry
Every doubt
Every fear for everyone I have ever loved
Becomes a full-length movie
I am forced to watch
Every time I try to rest or close my eyes or even think
Every time I am arguing and screaming and yelling against these imagined worlds
I have to repeat the mantra:

It's not real
This is not real

I have to force myself  into cognitive lucid day dreaming
Some new framework from someone else's fantasy
That's happy
Where people love me and care
Then I wake up
I sit alone at home every night hoping I don't wake up from this dream
That these worlds can be real
But I know
One day the ones I fear most
Will be real

Hold On!
Take a breathe

It's not real
It's not real
It's just a story
Aren't we all stories?

Are you ok?
No, I'm not
But its none on your concern
Leave me alone
I'm always alone
No matter who's here

I have been so scarred by those who claim to love me
That I do not believe anything they say
Only when I see them actually act.
But, if I have to tell them that
Then I am forcing them into showing they care
Then, do they really?
Or do they feel obligated?
I don't care for those I do,
because I have to,
because I'm required to
I do not expect something in return
But I want it SO badly

And the problem is
that if I tell them this
It becomes about me
And this is not about me
I'm a parent
My life stopped being mine when he was born
But what about ME?

You should just let sleeping bears lie
Because this one can't sleep alone at night anymore
With his head so crowded with worlds full of travesty

I am so ******* angry all the time
At myself for letting myself feel this way
For needing someone else

I can't
I just can't anymore.

But I still do
I'm tethered to a web of fake memories and sins I know are not real

It's not real
It's not real

It's a ghost story that haunts
but with no substance
no form
no unfinished business
no one ever conducts ANY actual business

I am alone in the light of day
At night the endless voices scream out in silence

It is better for me to ignore you
than to unleash what I keep trapped inside
I care too much
For you to have to face that monster
Staying away is protecting you
If I ever let out what's in there
It will destroy you

It's the mask I wear so I don't crack into a million pieces
And take all of my worlds with me

STOP
You can stop right there
Forward stop having meaning years ago
When you lied to me and said, "I love you"
You actually want to show you care
You're going to have to try harder
And if the effort isn't there
Then your actions will speak for you
What you say
No longer does

I scream, WHY!" in chorus with my radio
WHY?
I don't know if it makes me feel better or worse
Why do I feel this way?

It's not real
It's not real

What world am I in?
Is this one real?
Where do I exist?
Do I exist?

I just want your sugar high
Saccarine sticky love notes
Tender, with your honey milky scent
Just love me, like the sucker I am
And let me swallow you whole

by Ryan P. Kinney

Door swings open.
A familiar red, white, and blue figure glides through.
No one looks up from their drink.

Nods at the bartender and sits down.”

“Leave the bottle.”
“It won’t do any good anyways.”

“You know the part they never tell anyone about this job- The piles of dead kids…”
“Adults, you can usually excuse as having put themselves into some sort of dangerous situation. That if they really thought about what they were doing or where they were going they probably could have avoided this whole mess”

Chugs the bottles. Nods for another

“The fastest man alive and I still can’t be two places at once.”
“Remember that magic guy who turned everyone into kids for a day awhile back.
You know how many kids died just from lack of supervision”

“Truth?
Justice?
Those are pretty abstract concepts when you’re handing someone’s charred toddler back to them.
It doesn’t matter that you saved 20 more.
This one hurt the most.”

Stars blankly at his full bottle

“What kind of world would I bring my kid into?”

The Dr. told me I had a Vitamin D deficiency.
“The sunshine one?”
Say’s, this is pretty common in Ohio in the winter.
Doc, I said, I never had this issue before
And I always lived in Ohio.
I guess Age just meant I got a little darker

So, she gives me these little round pills. Take 1 a week
Imagine that, they put sunshine into a little pill
Funny enough, they were black
Spongey little black things
Like a micro black hole that bottles up the sun
And when I swallow I begin my own internal big bang biochemical genesis
And suddenly, I’m supposed to be brighter

Like I didn’t spend my whole decade inside
Waiting for you to contact me
Waiting for you to open me up

It isn’t rejection
It’s honesty

Tanka-ka
Or Not Tanka

American tanka: Japanese influenced poetry that ignores rigid syllable guidelines; typified by an individualist, nonconformist sentiment.

1.

You step so cautiously
That sometimes you forget
To take a step
And I am left waiting,
Running far ahead


2.

You don’t realize
That your body
Might just save this one
This body might,
Just **** me


3.

What does all this stuff mean?
What does this world mean?
Long after I am gone
This **** will still be here,
Forgotten by everyone


4.

Internet ****
Seduces mens’ hearts
And objectifies their desires


5.

The destruction of the self is intolerable,
Everyone tells me
To destroy myself is unacceptable,
Little round pills


- Kinney Ryan

The AntiChild
by Ryan P. Kinney

Happy Birthday, my AntiChild.
What will be my gift to you?
Life.
A random slice of all that came before you.
With the wisdom of a madman.

I will twist, and shape, and encourage,
Oh yes, you will be corrupted.
I will teach you,
That the world is not as you’ve been told.

I will tell you,
What it means to be a man,
And a woman.
And the difference is all in your head

No one is right or wrong.
Only what’s right for you.
Adults lie.
Juvenile records are not permanent.
Kids were made for fun.

While we’re at it…
Santa Claus is a zombie,
The Easter Bunny is a mutant,
Unicorns are a government conspiracy…

Then I will tell you,
I could be lying.
But, think for yourself.
I bet you could come up with a better story.
And, know,
That the sanest man in the room is probably the most insane.

Life will hurt,
And often ****.
But don’t give up.
Women will break your heart.
Growing up is a sin,
But, be responsible for yourself.

Never take anything too seriously,
And do everything with absolute sincerity.
Question everything.
Take nothing for granted.
Seek the answers yourself.
Answer Who am I?
Then go out with Nerf guns blazing.

I will teach you to create,
To turn garbage into gold.
To give your thoughts form.
And your hands their due.
To see potential and possibility,
Where others only see trash and hopelessness.
Everything is art.

You will write on paper bags,
And doodle on receipts.
Grab the nearest object,
And give way to your soul.

My little taint will ensure,
That your thoughts MUST bolt
With the spasmodic urgency of adolescence.
Or you WILL combust.
And sometimes,
I will tell you to do just that.

Life will be your creation.
Therein lies the truest art.
The finest work of man,
Is to make something out of themselves.

Why, the AntiChild?
Because you will be the antithesis of every other kid,
You will be better,
You are our legacy.
A universe of your own making awaits you.
Built on a family of love, life, experience…
And more than a few comic books.

Barreling down the highway
Haphazardly spray painted, split down the middle black and white
Grateful Dead bear dangling from the mirror
Cher blaring on the radio
Dented, scratched, rusted- scars of well use
Bed full of broken toys

Second Engine
Second life

This thing was more a person
Than most I’ve met

Atleast this one worked
This one was useful
This one was still here
With me

The Blue Collar Lament
by Ryan Kinney

I spend most of my week in a semi-conscience trance watching multi-million dollar machines work. They are more alive than I am. Monday at 3 PM I click off my brain, switch on automatic, and begin the countdown-T-minus 40 hours. Each minute that ticks by in the dull monotony slowly steals my sanity, bit by bit. The vampire conglomerate that signs my check robs me of my youth, intelligence, and vitality until I am just another mindless automaton.

These walls are masters of time. Each minute closer to Friday gets slower and slower, until on Friday they seem to tick backwards. Then on Monday, the entirety of the previous week repeats. Each day blurs into the other making them indistinguishable.

The dictator they put in charge of the asylum barks out commands on cue, just to remind everyone that they own you. All the while he never realizes that he's just another puppet dancing for them, only his strings are shorter. When they inevitably cut them he has further to fall.

I often welcome sleepwalking through most of the week. In the few instances the machines malfunction I curse being awakened. At least as a zombie I don't feel my mind rotting.

I live on the weekends. I shed the identity the uniform has forced upon me and my true self emerges. On the weekends I love life, I achieve the goals I value, not the hazy path set before me by the corporation that owns my soul. For two days the dungeon master gives me reprieve from my incarceration. Upon clocking out each Friday I suddenly feel rejuvenated, while Sunday night I begin dreading the impending coma.

The desperation for dollars are the shackles that keep me here. I am only truly living two days a week and dying the other five. I've made a pact with the devil, 5/7th of my life for a weekly pittance. Until the decay of my body matches that of my brain I return weekly to mind numbing tedium, the memory of my weekend existence fading into the background.

Written 1/28/08 while on the "job"
Edited and organized into sensibility on a weekend.

by Ryan P. Kinney

Assembled from works by J.M. Romig and Ryan P. Kinney

Once you log into The Network, you can't log off.
Once you're plugged in, you can't opt out.
That's the way things are.
Your life becomes your Channel.
Your world becomes your Show.
Have you seen the latest episode of Walking Dead or Breaking Bad?
Have you looked in the mirror?
Reality shows?
Who’s reality?

We live in the information age
Full disclosure is no longer optional
We are sharing information.
We are contributing to the death of the self.
Or are we finally mastering intelligence?
We know how to play the system
how to get followers,
when to drop a hashtag,
when to upsell a sponsor,
We are social creatures
And social control is how you keep the pigs in their pen
Until it’s time to offer us up as sacrifice at the altar of decadence
The Rich are locked up
in their floating wi-fi enabled panic rooms,
High above all of the pollution.
Living vicariously through the shows
broadcast by The Network.
Sell me another artificially derived addiction
Masquerading as sustenance
Tell me how much I need it
Need you
Preach it with the fear of the unorthodox on Fox News

Meanwhile on the ground,
people are caricatures of themselves -
the byproduct of generations
of narcissism as survival mechanism.
Nostalgia, and criticism
as a means to pay the bills.
Unless you choose to never log in.
Choose to ignore the cameras
following everyone everywhere
You can always get a real job -
If you can find one.
Most people don't.
It's the new economy.
In exchange for our data, and privacy,
we get ad-revenue and a chance at stardom.
We willingly give them our intelligence
Our spirit
For another video game
Another TV show
That promises a better reality
See it all in HD
While we dubstep to our doom
Up Jacob’s Ladder
Built out of the 15 minute prophets

We’ve traded a heartbeat for an electronic pulse.
Blips and bleeps in an imagined humanity.
Forgetting that living means leaving the house.
When the feed is quiet -
we take the occasional moment
to breathe – cough -
and look up to where all the stars used to be.

Created at the Winter Writing Workshop (Dec. 27, 2015),
HEYMAN! Productions

The following is a very powerful dream I had the night of May 15th, 2009. I don’t often have dreams because my vivid imagination means I daydream a lot. I am seeking interpretations from anyone. Can you help me discover what it means…?

I am sitting in an auditorium. I am with my father, mother and brother, Shawn. The presenters are giving away tickets, one to a Cavs game, another to Cedar Point. I chose Cedar Point.
Instantly the environment changes. I am attending a huge social event party in a large multi-level office building. I am attending with 3 nameless, faceless friends. The party features 7 themed rooms. The first was an entry way similar to the one at my middle school. The second was a cross between the Cleveland Zoo (indoor parts) and an Indian bazaar market. There were tanks with lizards, salamanders, sharks, and sting rays. All had a price sticker on them. The third was a parlor with computers. I never discovered the other 4 rooms.
At this party, I knew Lisa was attending. I also knew she had a magical crystal that split her into 2 people. However, due to the 7 rooms she was accidentally split into 7. Each of the 7 Lisa’s was a different color (clothing), each representing a different personality characteristic.
The first Lisa I ran into was the black one in the entry way. When she saw me, she exclaimed, “Oh, ****!” and ran. It was shortly after that that I realized that she and the white one were evil. They were trying to **** me. I killed the white one. I do not remember how or why. Next I started running from the black one. I was sure that it had already killed my friends and I was next. She chased me into the parlor where I confronted her. When I turned around I realized this “Black Lisa” had turned into me. I killed it by slamming its head into a laptop screen.
I ran from the parlor into a stairwell. Here I encountered the red, purple, and yellow Lisa’s. These, I was sure were the good ones. I wanted to protect these 3 Lisa’s from the other 2 (colors unknown), that I was sure were trying to hurt us. I paid most attention to the red one. It was then, that my friends returned, coming down the hall with one slung over the shoulders of the other two. All three were alive and well.
Then I woke up…



Ryan’s Interpretation

The Dark Muse Dream

The following is a very powerful dream I had the night of May 15th, 2009. I don’t often have dreams because my vivid imagination means I daydream a lot. I am seeking interpretations from anyone. Can you help me discover what it means…?

I am sitting in an auditorium. The womb or an early family home.
I am with my father, mother and brother, Shawn. This scenario represents the beginning, my childhood and early family life before Lisa.  It also portrays quiet desperation.
The presenters are giving away tickets, one to a Cavs game, another to Cedar Point. Cedar Point is circumstantial.  I was going there later that month.
I chose Cedar Point.  The choice represents the choices I had to make in my life to go from child to man.
Instantly the environment changes. The 360 my life took after I met Lisa.
I am attending a huge social event party in a large multi-level office building.  Suddenly I had a social life and friends.  I was no longer an unknown and alone.  She brought me out of my shell.  The multi level building represents the complexity of my life with Lisa.
I am attending with 3 nameless, faceless friends. The party features 7 themed rooms. The first was an entry way similar to the one at my middle school. This was the familiar.
The second was a cross between the Cleveland Zoo (indoor parts) and an Indian bazaar market. This was the bizarre, strange, and new.  These first two rooms represented the outside world.
There were tanks with lizards, salamanders, sharks, and sting rays.   These creatures represent the untouchable, i.e. slimy.
All had a price sticker on them. They are for sale.  Nothing is sacred.
The third was a parlor with computers. The parlor represents my sanctuary, calming, and relaxing.  Yet the computer was one of many causes of my divorce.  To Lisa, me on the computer meant neglect.  The parlor also represented home with Lisa, hidden from the rest of the world.  This is where all the fighting and problems occurred.
I never discovered the other 4 rooms.  
At this party, I knew Lisa was attending. I also knew she had a magical crystal that split her into 2 people. Lisa was 2 completely different people.
However, due to the 7 rooms she was accidentally split into 7.  This represents the 7 deadly sins.
Each of the 7 Lisa’s was a different color (clothing), each representing a different personality characteristic. In my world, color represents emotion.
The first Lisa I ran into was the black one in the entry way. When she saw me, she exclaimed, “Oh, ****!” and ran. She is scared of me or ashamed.
It was shortly after that that I realized that she and the white one were evil.  White means my hidden anger towards Lisa while black is my guilt.
They were trying to **** me. Both my anger and guilt are killing me from the inside out.
I killed the white one. I do not remember how or why. Next I started running from the black one. I was sure that it had already killed my friends and I was next. The “Lisas” or more accurately, me destroyed all I had left (my friends).
She chased me into the parlor where I confronted her. When I turned around I realized this “Black Lisa” had turned into me. I was really running from and angry at myself.
I killed it by slamming its head into a laptop screen.  The act of slamming the head represents the violence I am guilty of and fear I am capable of.  Breaking the computer destroyed that which destroyed my happiness.
I ran from the parlor into a stairwell. The stairwell represents the path to my new life.
Here I encountered the red, purple, and yellow Lisa’s.   The good parts of Lisa I wanted to protect.
These, I was sure were the good ones. I wanted to protect these 3 Lisa’s from the other 2 (colors unknown), that I was sure were trying to hurt us.  I have an apprehension something else out there will hurt me again.
I paid most attention to the red one. Red means love.
It was then, that my friends returned, coming down the hall with one slung over the shoulders of the other two. Slung over the shoulders means a shoulder to lean on.
All three were alive and well. They were there, surprisingly, when I thought I was alone.
Then I woke up…

by Ryan P. Kinney

This is a dream I had the night of May 27, 2013.

The dream opens to me in a booth at a restaurant with an unknown faceless female friend. I begin to notice at other booths across me a single woman sitting in several different booths. I slowly begin to realize that all of these woman look like Lisa, although each unique and different. These very similar women were sitting by themselves, and freaking out people around them with how similar they looked. I instantly rationalize that they are all Lisa’s from alternate realties, different possibilities of what they could be.
I am talking with my friend as I notice these women. My friend gets up to go to the bathroom and I approach these Lisa’s, addressing them all at once. I ask them to join me at my table (there are 3 of them that I can identify, but my mind told me there were 3 more there, a total of 6). They all come to my booth without a word, as though they were expecting this. I bring them to my table and add a chair for my friend at the end. The friend never returns and despite my mind telling me there were 6 Lisa’s, there was only space for 3 of them. They sit down.
One Lisa is very similar to mine, although very thin and pale. Another Lisa is rather chubby. A third Lisa sits down a few minutes after the others. She returned in place of my former friend. She was dressed in cyber goth clothing with black contacts that made her pupils appear to be constricted solid black circles. I exclaimed, “Ooo, there’s a goth Lisa.”
I addressed the Lisa most like mine and began asking her questions to gauge how like mine she was, almost suspecting that she was. The only question I can remember was, “What kind of car do you drive?” She told me a story about her white car, but I cannot remember the details. I told her the story of my breakup with my Lisa. Somewhere in the conversation I grabbed the thin Lisa’s wrist and she asked me, “Do you want to break that wrist?” I asked, “Problems with an eating disorder?” She nodded.

The chair at the end of the booth remained empty.

I awoke…

Maybe I shouldn’t drink before bed.

by Ryan P. Kinney, Aaron Shinkle, and Ohayocon Jigsaw Workshop attendee

The fall of man

It was the end of monsters
The end of mothers
The end of haters
Of lovers
Of pain and suffering
Of bliss and ecstasy

Nothing to hide under the bed
No terror floating in your head
Just the buzzing and swarming of the insects

There was just the animalistic need to survive
And Gaia had decided
It was best for her survival
If we did not

How did we let this happen?
A new era begins
For the worse
I will not be silent

The seventh gateway opens
All the trumpets sound
Clamoring in the hallway.
Truth is subjective.

Truth be told
We did it to ourselves

One never sees the monster
Hiding in the open
No one ever suspects that we are hiding something
When they are staring it in the face

Everything from nothing.
And to nothing we return.
To the whole of the way,
We hastened our downfall through an illusion of control.
Only through letting this run its course
And stepping to the center could the master hope for survival.

by Ryan P. Kinney

It was the end of monsters
The end of mothers
The end of haters
Of lovers
Of pain and suffering
Of bliss and ecstasy

Nothing to hide under the bed
No terror floating in your head
Just the buzzing and swarming of the insects

There was just the animalistic need to survive
And Gaia had decided
It was best for her survival
If we did not

The fall of man

Truth be told
We did it to ourselves

by Ryan P. Kinney and Aaron Shinkle
With additional content assembled from Eli Williams and Lennart Lundh

The fall of man

It was the end of monsters
The end of mothers
The end of haters
Of lovers
Of pain and suffering
Of bliss and ecstasy

Nothing to hide under the bed
No terror floating in your head
Just the buzzing and swarming of insects

There was just the animalistic need to survive
And Gaia had decided
It was best for her survival
If we did not

Truth be told
We did it to ourselves

Some future digger after truth,
alien or human, kneeling with
trowel and brush at this grave,
will note in clear, careful script
the wonder that a people would
be so deliberate with the smallest
of their gods' creatures,
and so careless of themselves.

One never sees the monster
Hiding in the open
No one ever suspects that we are hiding something
When they are staring it in the face

We walked upon the new Earth
Like we did on the Old
Tugging along our gravel hearts
On broken asphalt
Our eyes slowly
Moving towards the new sky
The clouds, like curtains, unfolded
Our feet freshly cleansed of old
Traditions and assumptions that we
would never make it to this moment
But no one knew what was past
That port of no return
The ship sailed away,
Faded out of view

Another layer chipped away like
Hardened clay
The people here aspire to be
Nothing more than alive
The lives of the New World
In the hands of strangers
Coexisting within each other
For fear of never existing again
This is their lifeline, their blood
They are all in this repopulation
Together

we see others as they are
we see ourselves at every age
and all at once
supplicants, praying for tomorrow.
Everything from nothing.
And to nothing we return.
To the whole of the way,
We hastened our downfall through an illusion of control.
Only through letting this run its course
And stepping to the center could we hope for survival

The lights one by one dim
The music softens
The actors bow,
We close the curtain on this world

by Ryan P. Kinney and Aaron Shinkle
With additional content assembled from Eli Williams and Lennart Lundh

The fall of man

It was the end of monsters
The end of mothers
The end of haters
Of lovers
Of pain and suffering
Of bliss and ecstasy

Nothing to hide under the bed
No terror floating in your head
Just the buzzing and swarming of insects

There was just the animalistic need to survive
And Gaia had decided
It was best for her survival
If we did not

Truth be told
We did it to ourselves

Some future digger after truth,
alien or human, kneeling with
trowel and brush at this grave,
will note in clear, careful script
the wonder that a people would
be so deliberate with the smallest
of their gods' creatures,
and so careless of themselves.

One never sees the monster
Hiding in the open
No one ever suspects that we are hiding something
When they are staring it in the face

We walked upon the new Earth
Like we did on the Old
Tugging along our gravel hearts
On broken asphalt
Our eyes slowly
Moving towards the new sky
The clouds, like curtains, unfolded
Our feet freshly cleansed of old
Traditions and assumptions that we
would never make it to this moment
But no one knew what was past
That port of no return
The ship sailed away,
Faded out of view

Another layer chipped away like
Hardened clay
The people here aspire to be
Nothing more than alive
The lives of the New World
In the hands of strangers
Coexisting within each other
For fear of never existing again
This is their lifeline, their blood
They are all in this repopulation
Together

we see others as they are
we see ourselves at every age
and all at once
supplicants, praying for tomorrow.
Everything from nothing.
And to nothing we return.
To the whole of the way,
We hastened our downfall through an illusion of control.
Only through letting this run its course
And stepping to the center could we hope for survival

The lights one by one dim
The music softens
The actors bow,
We close the curtain on this world

by Ryan P. Kinney and J.M. Romig

The coy house thinks, “Should I let this man enter me?”
Although she pretends to resist at first
She soon relents,
The pressure giving way and her door granting passage

He pledges to give her hardwood floors
To put a swingset in her backyard
The finest dressings on her windows
Painting her face,
Decking her out
To show the world how much he loves her
Softly wooing, he promises her a family

She hopes this one will make good
As he begins his work,
She watches the swell in his young wife’s womb
And for a while, believes in life again

For the first time in years,
She breathes fresh air as they move in their boxes
The melding of their past and her future
An image so bright,
That she is almost blinded by the light
When one night,
The soon-to-be mother misses her first step

At the bottom of the stairs,
He finds his world in pieces
As the paramedics pack the body and cart it away
The door closes behind them
And the air grows stagnant

The only boxes he ever unpacks,
Contain spirits
To numb him from the haunting emptiness inside
The past becomes nothing, but a foot stool
Slowly crushed and deformed under his weight
Her rooms,
Built to house new memories, home cooked meals, and laughter
Now nothing, but
Stale beer, chips, and wasted life


Created from prompts at the Winter Writing Workshop (Dec. 27, 2015),
HEYMAN! Productions