01/31/2019

Today, I learned the true extent to which I loathe the IRS. To be fair, I've always known that I hated them. I've had plenty of legitimate reasons for this in the past. For instance, every year, they casually extort our wage and salary, pretending to allocate it for the building of bridges, roads, and schools. While in reality, the infrastructure and educational system crumble, and defense spending grows without limit.
But then again, I do suppose that in a certain sense, roads, bridges, and schools are built indirectly with these funds; but only after the funds are used to blow these institutions to smithereens in third world countries, and private corporations like Halliburton are contracted to rebuild them for egregious profits. Profits, mind you, which are shuffled to dozens of offshore shell corporations, ensuring that they are taxed at a rate exponentially lower than the profits of the average working citizen.
But today, I experienced a type of hatred entirely novel to my conceptions of what is even possible in the realm of consciousness. A loathing so intense that it paralyzed my rationality, sending me into fits of rage and bewildered astonishment that I would wish on NO ONE . . . except Cheney or Kissinger, the ******* *******. For today, for the first time in all my 28 years of life, I filed my federal income taxes. I knew that one day the chore would inevitably arise, but I still consider it an accomplishment to have made it through an entire third or more of my life without ever actually dirtying my hands with the wretched muck. All that aside, the story goes like this:
I work as an “independent contractor” for a friend who runs a small business. I perform various services around the office, and he cuts me a check at the end of the week. I've been working there “on paper” for about a year, really a bit longer, but “what they don't know...” so goes the old adage. We had, the both of us, anticipated with tempered irritation, the arrival of this bureaucratic beast of burden. However, neither of us knew that the deadline mailing date for “independent contractors” comes nary two months sooner than for payroll employees. This information was sprung on us at the very last minute by his tax attorney who, from this point on, will be referred only to as 'G.S.' (grease stain).
As I was fulfilling my duties, my friend urgently beckoned to me “STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING. TAXES ARE DUE TODAY, AND WE HAVE TO FILE THEM NOW!” Naturally, I panicked. I had seen an income tax form . . . perhaps once or twice? . . .  much less filled one out . . .  maybe once at 17 during the employment process at a fast food joint? . . . Initially, we had thought it would be a simple matter of the W-2, the likes of which had been filled out automatically for me by employers in the past as a part of the hiring phase. Nonetheless, since my status of “independent contractor” placed me into a different tax category, I had to fill out what is known as a 1099-MISC. “Simple enough!” thought I, “I'll just fill in the relevant details and get back to work.” . . . “NOT SO FAST, CASEY JONES!” screamed the form, with all its talk of “fishing boat expenses” and “crop insurance” . . . “O...K?” “and what precisely has this to do with me?” thought I.
My employer, courteous as he can sometimes be, called up (t)rusty old G.S., who referred us to a site where the form could be understood more intelligibly. After a bit of head scratching and chin stroking, we figured it out. No matter, though! Because once we figured the form out, we couldn't figure out what to DO with the ******* thing. 'G.S.' was once again consulted, and he told us that we could simply print the form, and take it to an H&R Block office for submission. “Okay, simple enough!” thought I . . . but alas! It was not to be so. When we arrived at said office, the agent . . . who looked like a burned out caricature of William H. Macy . . .  reviewed the forms, and said that to apply the deductions I had calculated, he would require a $300 fee for his services, and that I would need to fill out a “Section-C.” This lanky, rasp-voiced, twig of a man then withdrew from his cubicle, at which point, my employer whispered to me “**** that, I've done Section-C forms hundreds of times, we're ditching these crooks”
At this point, we retreated back to the office, found what we thought to be the relevant forms, but were soon swept up in a vicious monsoon of bureaucratic legalese which, although it resembled English, bore few similarities other than word spelling and grammatical form. It is sometimes alleged that Kafka was haunted by ghosts which had an insatiable appetite for stories. The legend further has it that he would write for them to quell their unyielding wrath. Those of us who have read Kafka know intimately of his satirical preoccupation with the absurdity of bureaucracy. Perhaps these stories pleased the ominous specters which loomed over him like the fluorescent light beaming down upon me as I type these words. Some things can never be known for certain. If, however, this were truly the case, then it would seem that Kafka's ghost had now taken the role of writing MY story for his own amusement. Every cliché of the DMV and social services building was present in this ghastly affair. “Fill out this form; stand in this line; oh, I'm sorry, sir. You've got the wrong form. You'll need to file a (…) and take it to (…), their hours are MwAhMwAhMwAhMwAhMwAh” This futile circumlocution went on for SIX HOURS. All the while, thoughts of a perfectly wound noose, crafted of thick hemp rope, with thirteen pristine wraps forming a slipknot to be fitted as though tailor made around my neck filled my mind, as the acute stages of benzodiazepene withdrawal began to set it. Luckily enough, or so we suspect. We figured it out, and now I have only to wait for my return to come in the mail to see what I owe.
But once I got home, I got to thinking. There is a copy of 'Infinite Jest' on my coffee table. A literary epic whose magnitude cannot possibly be overstated. I began to think deeply reverential thoughts of the author of this book, and then something clicked in my mind: on that fateful day when Wallace took his own life  by the noose, he was in the middle of writing a novel about nothing less than the 1985 Tax Code in Illinois, and a group of IRS agents. Being the adamant researcher of all topics that he was, we can hardly imagine that he did not give this terrible ******* of language what he felt to be its due diligence. Of course, any responsible thinker understands that correlation does not equal causation; but as the admittedly ironic thoughts of suicide filled my mind over the course of this afternoon and evening, I can't help but be left to wonder if a mind so vastly superior to mine as his did not experience these ideas with markedly less irony as he reveled in the vile idiosyncrasies of bureaucratic jargon. Again. Some things can never be known.

“Just this once,” you said.
I couldn’t wrap it around my head.
Your promise replayed and replayed:
“Those were my high school days
I’m done now
I’ll show you how
I’ll show you my grades
I promise you A’s
Oncology, psychology, Tour de France,
I wasted it last year, so now’s my chance.
I ****** up so badly
I love you so madly
I’ll prove to the world, to myself, and to you,
That with every vow I take I know I’ll come through.”

If you were so set on your integrity,
Why did you become the opposite of what you said you’d be?
Why did you say “I’ll be over at ten,”
Wait for my worried text at twelve, to which you said:
“Oh about that…yeah um, I hoped you’d forget.”

My list of why’s will always haunt me.
Why was everything you said so taunting?
Why did you always threaten to break up,
When all I needed was for you to hurry up?
30 minutes late? No worries, no big deal,
But after four hours of course I’d lose my chill.
I felt like an idiot, buns fused to the couch.
As time passed by, I became a ****** grouch.
You were out with your friends, unconcerned about me
Or the fact that you said you would be here at three.
Well, three became four, then five, six, and seven,
And you’d leave me to return to your friends at eleven.
“You’re tired of waiting for me? Keep yourself busy.
Use your creativity.
I won’t make time for you, that’s how it will be,
This is who I am, I dgaf, take me or leave.
'Good morning' and 'goodnight' are utter *******.
That’s not you and me, that’s Judy and Cliff.
You’re too **** sensitive, toughen up, be a man.”
But how can I when you always told me I can’t?

You were my *******, marijuana,
The more you’d say go away the more I’d want ya.
I got hooked to the feeling of having you around,
And now that you’re gone I always feel down.
But I slap my mouth shut before I can say,
“I miss you so dearly, oh please won’t you stay?!”
I’m an ex-addict, every time I want you back,
I remind myself you’re deceiving as a pipe full of crack.
I know you were bad to me,
but horribly addicting.


“Shut up now before I really get angry.
And when I get mad, I’m scary, trust me.”
I always shut up, I never persisted,
Because to every concern I expressed, you resisted.
I allowed you to threaten me, scared to see when
I awoke your dormant beast from within.


You had purple pants that I didn’t like,
I’d playfully say, “Don’t wear those tonight!”
One day in line at the DMV,
you reminded me my favorite shoes “are ******* disgusting.”
You always made sure to insult my attire,
But believe it or not, I’ve been told I inspire.
“Look at my two-hundred dollar French jeans,
How ****, son, I’m so ******* clean.
Now look at you in your thrift store outfit,
Compared to great me, humble you look like ****.”

I simultaneously felt like your mother
and your punching bag of a little brother.


Your words were the cookies to my Teflon-free brain,
I tried to unstick them; they drove me insane.
Hit after hit, after hit, after hit,
Your words were so spiteful,
Of my self I felt jipped.

I was the naïve fish that bit your line,
Of “You know I’m a good guy, so just stop crying.”
My tears would dry and I would feel fine,
But there was always an inkling in the back of my mind:
"This isn’t right, I don’t deserve this treatment,
I love him, I do, so why do I feel such resentment?"

You’d continue to reel me in with your words,
“I love you so much, Christy, of that I’m sure.
I love you more now than ever before.”

...


So tell me, sir, why, when I entered the door,
Just a few days after July twenty-fourth,
I opened my laptop to see on the internet
“Lu Rivas is single,”a few likes, and a comment?

Was this a joke? It had to be.
Considering just days before, you cried to me.
You cried to me? Or did you lie to me?
Which you did you expect me to believe?
The one who said “I used to do drugs,
Because of my horrible cheating first love,
I used to smoke ****
‘cause I couldn’t stand me.”
Or the one who got high two hours after,
Saying sobriety was a long-gone chapter?

The one who said “I’m gonna marry you one day,”
Or the one who said “This love **** is so ******* gay”?

The one who said, “We have all summer to hang,”
Or the one who said “Summer’s Wahb time, get over me, dang.”

The one who said “I’m gonna start training,
Doing well in school, cuddle you when it’s raining,”
Or the one who dropped classes, gave up himself,
To be with his friends and no one else?


“I love you because you’re so different”
Became “You’re too weird, you’re not liked by my friends.”

Were you the Lu who said “I’m in love with you,”
Or the one who said “That’s not true,
I have no feelings for you.”

It wasn't the fact that you liked to ****,
It was the fact that your every promise you broke.

I couldn’t believe a word you said,
My brain in a dizzied daze in my head,
Because the opposite would be acted upon;
My brain felt dead;
Constantly translating contradictory definitions
Apparently our dictionaries had opposing renditions.


“I keep you around because you care for me genuinely”
Became “Let me breathe, I don’t want you around me!
I don’t give a **** about you or your interests,
And I haven’t since day one, please understand this.”


Laziness, impatience, irresponsibility,
Every one of your problems was my liability.


You might be doing well now; I’ve no way of knowing,
But I see that your happiness keeps your smile still glowing.
Just thinking about your smile made mine grow, too.
But to you, it was an inconvenience to share a laugh or two.

I never changed who I was,
Or pleased my friends’ desires
While you slowly wanted to get higher and higher.
I wasn’t enough anymore,
Just a hassle and a bore.

I knew I was being naïve and immature,
So shame on me for believing your now-transparent words.
You were so authentic, your words were opaque.
Now I see right through them, all of them; fake.
Is fake too harsh of a word to use?
I don’t think so, I’m the one you used.
I gave you what you wanted, and at first, you did too.
But as time progressed, we weren’t one, but two.

Oh, and I must have forgotten to mention,
How you never really got over that girlfriend.
You used me to fill in the hole that she left,
Until you realized that I wasn’t enough.
I wasn’t a *****, didn’t boss you around,
She barked at you constantly and you didn’t make a sound.
But you left me the week after
You started to reconnect with her.
Just a coincidence? I highly doubt it.
You missed the girl who made you her *****.
Might I even bring up how she cheated on you,
To make you stay, should I have been unfaithful, too?

I lost you to popularity, to the glamour of high school,
You hang on by the skin of your teeth to stay cool.
Partying, not caring, big ticket items.
Days I heard stories of, I knew you weren’t over them.
"Those were the days, God that was great,
Green crack, ecstasy, alcohol poisoning."

You steered clear of the man I fell in love with,
And returned to the 16-year-old kid I felt no connection with.

"I’m gonna go back now, return to my glory,
If I do something to hurt you, I won’t say I'm sorry.
I know I was good when I met you,
But that person I was is now gone,
The clean me was so ******* boring
I will not change me for anyone.
I lost who I was, but now I am found,
Go find someone else, go fetch a rebound."


So if you hate me now, I couldn’t care less,
Just remind yourself that I gave you my best.
Family parties meant I thought you were real,
I wouldn’t have taken you if I knew you’d repeal.

You used to be so bright, so effervescent
As time went on you seemed so disconnected.
Impatient and harsh, rude and abrasive,
I couldn’t please you.
Your “love” was evasive.

You steered so clear of the you that I met,
Not leaving you is my biggest regret.
I wish we could turn the clock back and switch places,
So you could see how hard it is to feel sad with happy faces.

Because the eggs I made you were always cooked wrong,
Understanding things took me too long,
My clothes were too cheap,
My face was too different,
I wasn’t your happiness,
I was your ailment.

I need liberation from feeling so down,
To remove this heartache I wear as a crown.
But I’ll try to remove this gilded hat,
'cause you dumped me on Facebook,
And that is that.

America needs a poor, ***** mother for president.
We need a Muslim for vice president and a feminist to lead the army.
America needs a homeless man with no health insurance and AIDS to allocate food stamps,
gays to run the senate, and lesbians to run the house.

America needs a president who’s been shot at,
*****,
and ****** on his whole life.
A person who has held their dying child,
losing a battle that cancer has already won,
buried up to the knees hospital bills.

America should be run by a person that wakes up every morning with no heat or air conditioner.
Who has fought in a war,
shakes in the night,
and lives on minimum wage.
Someone who takes the bus,  the subway, and owns one pair of sneakers,
There is no time or money for anything else.

We need an inner city teacher for president.
Someone who spends 4 hours on Sundays preaching for president,
Just to go home and put on his wife's dress.

America needs a straight talker and a street walker to head the FBI.
An illegal for the CIA,
And a transgender for the DOJ.
But that will never happen.
What I have realized is that there is no longer a distinction between what is right, and what is real.

Real, is a leader is one that has been to the free clinic,
waited in line at the DMV,
and buys clothes from Walmart.
Real, is a president that is no stranger to violence.
A vice president who has been to county.
That has been fed jail food,
strip searched,
and wasted years that they will never get back.

We, the people do not fly around in private jets,
Puffing on Cuban cigars.
We, the people do not solely consist of old, rich men,
Making decisions for young, poor women.
Telling us what we can and can’t do.
Who we can and can’t love.
Widening the gap between the haves and haves nots.  

We the people know hard work,
We know blood,
We know sweat,
We know tears,
But what we do not know,
Is how to engage ourselves in the goings on in the world around us.
Take responsibility,
hold your own,
and question everything.

She spins and twirls
no care in the world;
flower petals cover
the ground she frolics over
following her every which way.
The music guides her sway
her feet glides across the floor
as though her troubles are no more
and her anguish dissipates .
her suffering creates
the harmony and the old tears
fall with the melodic fear
that people are always disapproving.
But when my love is dancing and grooving
her heart skips the sad tracks
and finds her way back
home and in the warmth of my arms.
Her beauty shone bright because the harm
was left on the other side of the room
barricaded by dozens of flower's bloom.
She has been dancing for hours
and the bedroom is flooded with flowers
sprouting from the combination
of one part beauty and three parts the sensation
of being truly loved.
Her body slips into mine like a glove
For she is someone I will never let go of
When we dance together under the moon's love.

The line far from sparse.
The room humid and hot.
Gazing around the small space
one would hear and see
patience wearing thin like
cracks in the earth
waiting on the volcano to erupt.

Tapping of the feet.  
Shifting of the legs.
Sighs fill the stale air while
arms fold and unfold.
Whines of impatient children
drum against angry ears.
Elders gripe and groan
about aching bones.
Teens grin for the flash
of the camera, praying
the first picture will
come out right.

Coming to this place will
make anyone learn patience.
Welcome to the DMV.

Honestly I believe that I know what hell would be like
A place of slumbering demons
Some place that is practically empty
I bet most people would consider hell to be a place like the DMV
A long line waiting for everyone to come
Because eventually everyone has to come here
Everyone has something that holds them down
Something that constantly burns at the back of their mind
They see this as a melting ***
A steamy place of red hot flames and pointy rock for them to be impaled on
But I believe that Hell is more like the place that we are currently at
Is not one of hot flames and pointy rock, but the land we already embrace
It is one where people are already impaled
But not by demons necessarily
Maybe this is all a delusion that we live in
The devil already sent us to hell, but made it look like life
That really when you are looking you are truly blinded to your own reality
Because if you could see the evil that was going on you would already know
That possibly there are no people and more likely no angels
The truth is that you are one of those demons
You are one of those things
Thinking you could never be something like that
But in reality you are just that
Does that mean there are not lesser demons
No
There are worse terrors than yourself
But when you think back of how much more you could have done
How many were in pain
Maybe Unconsciously. Maybe unknowingly. You ignored them
Just know that not trying
Can be as bad as doing.

Not every trigger is on a gun.

Sometimes it is an action movie with explosions and car chases. My eyes close just before the cars collide.

Sometimes it is an eggplant in the middle of the store. The soft, purple flesh, bruised from a seatbelt.

Sometimes it is feeding a fire and being hit in the face with smoke from an engine.

Sometimes it is a nature show. Watching deer walk silently through the woods, bears awakening from hibernation, trees falling with such force that they fracture like bones.

Sometimes it is walking around the hospital and stumbling upon the labor unit. Hearing the familiar howls of pain as babies are pulled from their mothers and she is pulled from the car.

Sometimes it is waiting in line at the DMV. Watching the clock. Waiting for my number to be called and knowing that this is deja vu.

Sometimes it is hearing sirens rush by while I'm shopping and wondering if the socks I've just picked up, are the same shade of blue as her face in the back of the ambulance.

The trigger is on the neck of the bottle that puts me to sleep, when the barrel reaches my lips.

It is time to pull the trigger and empty the bullets into my grief and sorrow. I will lay them to rest in the plot beside my wife. Watching them flourish with forget me nots.