Friday, July 3, 2015

Queen of the Movement

I blanket your shit with a stiff upper lip
Let's get one thing clear
You are not queen of the movement
You repeat offending joys
Surrounding yourself with smoking toys
And denying that you aren't just sitting on your ass
Only rising up to sit your ass over there
And to play with your smoking toys
To offer up your offending joys
Oh, Queen of the movement
Let me pardon myself from your view
Let me take the back stairs out
Lest I run into you
So harsh, ruthless, blind
You know you need a cause but take no time to really ponder
Attack and defense,
When there's only the holding of the gun
Empty and not cocked
Not aimed,
Just looked at, spun around and turned
Pondering, thinking
But you only see the steel
The weapon, useless without its bits
Without its multitude of pieces
And you spring into action
Knock away the useless thing
And pound the face of the wielder
Who may be an asshole
But who only repeated what he grew up knowing
Its the same,
Raised a specific way to the innocent people you claim to protect
Spiteful and stupid,
All of you, oh queen, yes all includes you
Grow up and stop being a fucking idiot.

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Thorough Excuse - a short story

I am contractually obligated to give you the whole truth.   Not just the small tidbits one might expect from a story of this magnitude but the whole truth and nothing but it.   It's not that I think there is enough to warrant such a magnitude to what I need to say but the fine print above the dotted line I signed says the exact opposite.  It says that no matter what it was that I did wrong, I must be willing to explain myself in gory detail.  So here it is, the whole truth as I can surmise is necessary.
If I am going to deliver an accurate account of what went wrong I must first start at the beginning.   And by the beginning I do not mean my birth.  That would be far too much detail, no I will simply start at the start of that particular day - which was a Monday.    As everyone knows the start of the week is the worst day of the week.  There's no escaping this.  Garfield knew it.  It is an astrological exactness to everything that is wrong in the universe.  And my ill fated day was of astrological wrongs.  First my alarm was not set.   By not set I don't mean that the proper time was not entered, because it was, it was just that I didn't flick the little on switch to signal to my digital alarm clock that when the red numbers flash six'o'clock it is to be accompanied by an arrant and disturbing warning sound which really should be reserved for many natural disasters.  That's a ridiculous thought, as the horns they use now to warn of tornadoes and the like are much better than alarm clock alarms, but for the sake of full disclosure that was the type of thought that was going through my mind.   So I wake up about five minutes late, which means I'm pissed off.   When I open my eyes to see what ungodly hour my brain has decided to wake me at and I five minutes after the intended time on my clock I am naturally pissed.  This is an outrage, this is a break in the routine, this is a disaster.   I should not be waking up now, because now everything will be five minutes behind if I stick with my typical schedule, and since that can't happen I have to shorten some parts of my normal routine.   So either I lather up less in the shower, or I forego the toasting of my morning bread or I don't shave - which can't happen - or I will be late for work.   Decisions, already, at this time in the morning.   Like I said astrological disasters.  End of days shit.
I prefer to be perfectly clean so lathering less is out of the question so I stick to my normality in that regard.  I soap up my hair with this fruity clarifying shampoo that in fact smells like strawberries - like exactly like them.  Its fantastic, I can feel a layer of suds forming on my head and I figure I have an Afro foaming up there, and the hot water is spraying against my naked shoulders running down my body and I'm thinking I'm definitely wasting too much water.   That's a terrible thought.  A really tragic thought.  People are going without water, because of drought, or contaminates and crap like that and here I am loading my hair with seven dollar strawberry smelling shampoo and I don't care that water is passing by my toes by the gallons every minute.   I give the thought a think only for about two more seconds then I tip my head back and let the water rinse away the soapy goodness.  When I'm sure my hair is free I grap a bar of soap and get where I can get.   But there is always that space between my shoulders and the center of my back that tends to get neglected and i don't have a  brush to get to it anymore ever since the ex took it awhile back.  But screw it, I need to do what I can.   The water will probably make some soap land there anyways.
When I'm all finished with that and I dry off my face, my arms, my body, my legs, my balls, and my ass - in that order - I toss my towel in the hamper as though I'm a pro B-ball player.   But I miss and it drapes slightly on the corner and slides off onto the floor.  I pick it up on my way to the door and throw it in a tad annoyed like.   I tried to keep my mind off the fact that I'm still five minutes behind of my typical schedule.    Even as I slide one leg in after another into my boxer briefs, and then my work khaki's and my blue polo I can't allow myself to worry about the time.  
It's the toast I skip.  I grab and apple out of the fridge - the last one - and I pour myself a glass of orange juice.   I don't need the carbs, I have the fruits, the vitamin c, and the fiber, and I figure that'll be enough.   I scroll through recent news articles on my phone, well, actually I'm just looking at the newsfeed of facebook, seeing if there's any new developments in the lives of people that I went to school with who mine as well be strangers.   But I don't care.  There's something interesting about how other peoples lives are going, what they find worth posting about, what they are into.  Its interesting knowing where everyone is in their lives, even if you didn't care about them back in high school, but thats so long ago and you know you are not half the person you were back then, so how can you assume anyone else is.    That's what I do and then I click off after the the last vague post about someone vaguely complaining that their husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/dog/cat/world/society doesn't understand or listen to them.   How everything is royally screwed.   I could care less, but I'm just a spy, I don't let anyone know I'm present and taking interest.  
I check the time on my phone and I've shaved off a few minutes, now I'm only running a couple minutes late.  I step swiftly from my table to the front door and slide on my shoes.  Retrieving my keys from the rack I open the door - making sure its locked behind me - and I make my way to my overpriced gas guzzling SUV that my ex made me buy because she convinced me that if we ever had a family we'd need something better than my old Dodge Neon.   Now I'm stuck paying for the extra gas while she gallivants with coke fiends and hippie dippy bullshitters.   That's neither here or there, I digress.  I mean why should I care what she does.  We're not together anymore, I don't care, but I know what you'll say well he must care if he's going to waste the time to write in his mandatory explanation, but the answer is I don't care.  That's what I'm thinking on my way to work.  I'm still a couple minutes behind, so I accelerate a bit more and my engine goes from a purr to a roar as it accelerates from forty-five to eighty.   I can almost see the numbers being shaved off, its almost like my own little time travel machine.
That's when the blue and red lights flash behind me.  I'm so screwed that I don't know what to think.  The idea of possibly driving on and leaving an officer of the law in my dust only enters my mind for about ten seconds.  Who am I kidding, for one it wouldn't be worth it, and for the other I'm just not that kind of asshole.   So I wait.  And wait.  And wait, and then wait some more.  I know he's running my plates.  I know he's trying to discern my identity - less I be some homicidal maniac with a penchant for murdering cops.  He has to be cautious, I get that.  I'm also late for work.   More so now.  I didn't even eat my damned toast this morning.  That was supposed to be my saving grace.
So that's why I'm late.   I hope I have supplied enough detail in my story to warrant a good enough excuse.  I'm glad this company gives so many shits about me.  It really makes me happy to know.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Quit

Take out your blade
Let the blood drip to the ground
In that loving awful manner
Don't stain the floors
Catch the droplets in your palm
Breathe lightly
You've done this before
It's all so familiar
And now you are at peace
and I am happy
I am dead
and you are free
That's how it should have been
You blamed me for drowning you
But you chained us together
I gave you the key 
But you threw it away
I never applied the cement
That was all your doing
So don't pretend I buried you
When your shoes are the ones that are dirty

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Hide and Hide

It's not fair to assume that I knew what would happen had I not done what it was that I did.   Not to say that I thought everything would go on as it should but only that it would be altered in some other minor way.   That is a long way of saying I didn't know what the hell was going to happen to any degree.   We seldom expect the extremes.   We don't often believe in the extreme danger or the extreme peace.   That sort of peace where the crickets chirp and you sigh softly rather than that extreme danger where you are gasping for air and drowning in your own self-fulfilling self-loathing prophecy.  It tends to we worse when you end up in the middle of those extremes.  When you are neither gasping nor sighing but struggling not to hyperventilate.   That irregular heartbeat that comes with not knowing what extreme you are closest to.  Not expecting death but pain not expecting harmony but dissonance.  Its like that violin string that reverberates to an infinity chord.   That sort of piercing pitch that escalates to the point that you want to rip your hair out.  That's what I got.  That middle ground.  Then again I'd never hurt anyone like I had that night.
When I was sitting at home pondering on life's questions my wife asked me a simple question, probably something about dinner being later, or that my brother had called.    She didn't notice the beads of sweat, that thick coat of perspiration that forbid me hearing the outside world.   There was a film over the noises outside my ear.  Not physically, I have no such ailments, but something otherworldly.   Something more psychological to be honest.  She must have asked me several times because she stepped over and shook my shoulder and asked me if I was okay.   I lied to her, nodding a little too much and she gave me knowing stare which I returned and she knew then not to press the matter.
We could speak to each other through our eyes.   Have conversations with vague smiles, our lips really seldom move except when they connected.  It wasn't that we lacked common grounds to converse over it was that we both had a mutual respect for silence and subtleties.  I had always been a subtle man.   Been being the appropriate word.
I of course watch her night gown reveal images of the pink panties she's wearing as she takes cartoon leaps back to the bedroom but I don't find myself aroused.   I find myself missing that idea of sensual tension.   I find myself nervous that it'll be lost forever.  I check the clock that hangs on the wall over my left shoulder and its very nearly nine at night and I stand up.   I turn my attention to the direction my wife had just vanished around, and I want to follow.  I want to believe that its okay, that if I go with her I'll be safe.  That my lips will touch hers, and her hands would undress me while mine caressed her.    And we would fall like feathers into our sheets and explore the vast universe that is only us.   And stars would twinkle through our eyes, and choirs of angels would accompany a trio of doves as the heavenly harps played over sticky sweet chords of our love making.  Then it would be silent, then it would be our breathing.  Then would be our slumber.
But I can't.
I pick up my truck keys and do my best to be quick to the door.   The less she has to see me the easier it'll be to think of myself as something else.  I'm not a man right now.  I am the meta tron, I am the voice of god now.    Doing the work, good or ill that is required of me by my lord and master.   It may be a bit extreme but that's what it feels like.  I'm some pawn in a mythical game of chess controlled by divine overlords.   I'm a means to an end.   A piece more likely to be sacrificed than to succeed.  
The drive is quiet.  I don't turn on the radio.   I don't want to hear music or talk radio.  There's something sickening about not contemplating your current path.   To so easily distract yourself with pop songs and political ramblings.    Letting yourself forget where your headed so you can sing the lyrics to a tune about thug life or heartache.   I fool with the idea though.  The buttons are ever present as the digital display reads in green numbers that its nearly quarter to ten.   I'm very nearly there, as mysterious headlights illuminate my face.  I'm sure one of the beings out beyond my truck knows me, knows my mind, can see it in the high beams.
When I finally park I am taken aback by the stillness.   When I switch off the engine my trunk goes quiet.   A small hiss is all that existed but it slowly evaporates its sound to the open air.   I'm alone now.   Just me and that hideous quiet that sends shivers down spines, and back up to the neck again.   I even twitch a little.  For me this isn't just a figment this is something deep inside.   A demonic pull under my skin.  That feeling that if you were to open up my shirt a hand would be trying to escape as if from a plastic bag.  That feeling that with just enough force it would succeed.   I'm bringing something hellish onto this plain, and I've never thought it possible.
The headlights pass over me, and my company has arrived.   Not sure how long I waited, my heart is beating faster than a bullet, so much so that I'm not even sure that its beating.  My heart is that violin string, that held note, that monster tone.   My heart is in my throat my mind is pouring out of my ears.   My bowels nearly vacated all over my leather seats.   The seats that stick to my t-shirt as my nervous sweat coats my clothes.   I open the door and step out.   I fucked up, and I know it.   That's the worst part.
It can never be that easy.   You can never steal from villains and expect a slap on the wrist.  That's just what the heroes do.   That peaceful extreme, that placid ideal is not available.   The devils cleaned it out, threw it on clearance and disposed of the signage.   There's nothing left.   Death is possible, but not likely.  They'll hurt me first.   To what extent, I'm not sure.   Probably to the point that I wish I'll be dead.   That deadly extreme, its too good for me, to calming to know that its done.   This isn't done, this is prolonged suffering, this is torture.
I was the one who came up with the plan to take the money from the people that you don't take from.  But the man whose underneath the barrel of the gun that I'm holding, he's the one they believed did it.  Because I said it was so.  Because I turned on my tears and said it was so.   I was only following his lead, I was only too dumb to know better.   So they make me do it.   They make me hold that cold steel to his forehead and they make me stare into his eyes, that already are swollen and bloodied with little rivers of red tainting the whole.   I played the fool and they bought it and now here I am about to murder.   This is the extreme for him, but somewhere in the middle for me, and when I pull the trigger his troubles are over.   As the sand beneath our feet darkens with moisture I can't help but tear up.  After all he was my friend.  
I am his extreme.  I stare down at the gun in my hand and I look around at the devil faces around me.  The minions of hell smile on at me.   They claim that my balls are massive steel contraptions that no man could squash.  That I'm a man.   But I know like them I am but a machination.  A device, a tool.   A wind up automaton marching to the tune of my inner parts.  To the infinity chord.  That screaming baby.
Everyone goes silent when I look down the barrel of the piece.   There's a whole vision in there, as a tremble under the weight.   Not of the gun but of the consequences.   I see my wife, I see her eyes, I see those knowing conversations from lip teeth and eyes.  Those facial twitches that are impossible to hide.  I see those disapproving looks, those knowing frowns.   She's miserable in my visions, because I cannot hide my rusted parts.  I see my wife in the metals, and then I see no more.