Tuesday, June 20, 2017

The Meaning

Took long enough to understand the nature of the human condition
but it was much easier to forget.  No matter how many times the truth
is spoken the people are often sticking ice picks in their ears to dull
the sense of understanding.   In the charisma of the snake charmers
men are lulled into complacency till the venom is surging through
all veins, and the heart is pumping nothing but poison because they
could not be bothered to pay attention to the dangers.   In times of strife
pickled pigs feet are being eatin as substitutes for bananas and cream
cheese bagels because what does it matter what one consumes if one
is already dull to beauty.   In that wishy washy way they will say give
unto the world your best achievements but we will hoard them in the back
of the bus because we could not deem them perfect enough to be given
unto the rudimentary masses that followed us.   All the days that go on
with the sun burning high in the sky out there in the outer spaces
the men on the dark side of the moon who toil away at the cratered impact
blemishes searching for answers when life is being sent in cosmic rays
against the magnetic poles of our mother earth; it is not their fault
for forgetting for we tend to make men work with kinked necks and troubled
backs so that they can never look up.  Tell them again what you know
on social media, and let the like button be executed a thousand times
so that its death is many and just as the man who passes in the night
it will have no true consequence to the end game.  So eat your canned
ham, chicken and tuna and commit yourself to the absurd ordeals
of domesticated life, with ears bent and tail wagging in submissive
delight to the twirl of the auto-correct button on your IPhone 2000.
Took long enough to write nothing of consequence and redundant
in its absences of any real weight.   The people will look at what you
have said and scratch at the crusted sleepiness that sits dimly in 
the corners of their eyes and they will wonder why you waste minutes
of your time typing up impossible tasks.  For who can expose the truth
if they are unwilling to expose themselves to any real ridicule or lofty
ambitions.   Sit down and think it over, since you will never be this
young again.

Monday, June 19, 2017

Game Called Circle

Preliminary evaluations suggest we should check our speed
because moving to quickly in reverse at our current trajectory
is grounds for chastising.   When the little old ladies with wrinkled
faces and sweaty palms prone to speeding while under the influence
of anti-psychotics witness our insane bouts of banana driving
they will be implemented into your plot and proceed to push the pedal
to the metal.   The race will be on but the clock will be in reverse
and the smell of nursing homes will emit out of the exhaust pipe
of her Lincoln town car.   The sort of automobile reserved for the gods
of Egypt, that is too say ancient and falling to pieces because a bucket
of bolts is always set to overflow as the pavement is littered with potholes
and the wheels are sinking in.   There are no winners but there are also
no losers because everyone is falling behind, and continuing toward a point
in the beginning that they were always continuing toward.   The crowd
scratching its head in joined bewilderment will begin to file out with their
disappointed fountain sodas, and half eatin ball park franks.   While we discuss the future and continue bouncing about and spilling our guts about the world we live in
and our geriatric rivals watching us through competitive eyes parallel to our ride.

Ignoring the evaluations we are caught up in the conversation, and that
is when the lightning storm arrives.   Just in time the lightning flashes,
so we hit the brakes on the edge of the Atlantic, but the denture wearing
NASCAR grandmas don't know how to counteract so that their boat sized
Lincoln town cars fly off the docks and cliffs and splash down in ocean time.
Those crafty broads are safe and sound ejecting from sun roofs and pulling
parachute cords so that they float down like brittle flowers into the roar of a raging
sea.  We are there proud to be the leaders of the race, and crafting smiles as we laugh
at our shared interests.  The past generation has no hope to proceed passed the finish line,
and they were watching us for tricks but now they float in the ocean waiting for pick up.
No competition when it sabotaged itself, and though we are so far behind
we are now in the lead, and recover just fine.   Negative numbers dwindle to zero and we go on through to the finish and do laps around our words, and ignoring the catastrophe around
us we are set to come out on top.  I make a sign of the cross and you feel my cheek with a cold
palm, and when the kiss occurs I know it always was set to occur, and we
drink our victory champagne and we dance the night away while the coast guard gives
the little old ladies blankets and hot coffee because they are shaking and shivering off
the water in minute little droplets.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Bullshit Stuff

Even in the most intimate sort of settings music appears to play a certain part in igniting thought and discussion, or maybe it just instruments the discourse one must feel to fall in and out of a particular emotion.
A calamity can cure cancer but only in the end game because shuffling around the board is not enough to warrant an inclusion into scientific studies because what can one hope to see if one is constantly poking out his eyes.
Sewing is great if you have a thread but if you do not procure the needle then you are left twisting the vine with no way to penetrate for the creation of any sort of hocus pocus, and thus creationism is left to creators who no know how to use the pointed end.
The last time the world stop spinning was when it was first created, an orb on the other side of the great ravine where no one really go to put it down again because no one wanted to pick it up so it was just a useless little marble that god decided to build, like a shaped cats eye and stealies are not the sort of action that gets to happen.
On the way to the market you can forget to buy the bread as long as you've picked up the milk because while peanut butter sandwhiches are all fine and dandy you can spoon feed the butter into your mouth but you need to wash it down with a larger glass of milk.
Thus my class begins and I'll speak in foreign tongues and not understand half of what is said but I will grasp some sort of concept for that is the purpose of learning, and then it spill out one ear and into another and I fear I am doomed to repeat for never gaining credit is my game to lose.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

An Urgency Inherit to Children - short story

Samuel took a step forward after he had stopped his bike on the neighborhood path.  He straddled the foundation of his bicycle and gripped the handle bars as he scooted his feet along the pavement.  His fist were tight and his eyes glued forward where his feet were bringing him.   He'd never seen a dead person before and now there was one laying out across the path obstructing most of the way.   Had he been younger than he was, or older he may have reacted differently but he looked on then with a genuine albeit morbid curiosity.  It was unmistakable that there was no life within the corpse of the man, he was pale and stiff eyes faded into gray clouds of mist.   Samuel lifted a leg over his bike and let it fall to his opposite side just as he neared the man's mess of floating hair.   It had been picked up in the breeze a gray yellow lifted and dropped all at once so that it appeared to levitate.

He squatted in front of the man and cocked his neck to crane a look at his expressionless gaze.   It could not have been painful whatever it was that befell him, there was a serenity to it.   A look that said he had been content with his moments up until then, and Samuel thought on that old expression of life passing before a persons eyes before they had breathed their last breath.  At the angle Samuel peered the man's face appeared upside down, the ever changing shadows of the floating hairs on his forehead.   Samuel stood back up, and looked from one end of the bike path to the other, and saw no signs of passerby.   It was early morning then, the sun making its progression to its highest point in the sky but not quite there.  Then as if become with shock Samuel hurried back to his bike and rode back toward his house.

The trees whipped passed him as he pushed one foot on each pedal with a harsh and determined move of his leg.  His knees rose in bends, and straightened at speeds he hadn't fathomed he could reach.   The ending of the path seemed so far then, so completely foreign to him that he might as well have been traversing some foreign desert or navigating the amazon without a guide.   He knew though that home was forward, and that the body was behind him.  The middle aged man staring at the storm encroaching upon his iris'.   

Then an end.   Samuel slowed himself a little as he approached the street, the wisp of cars sneaking away in front of him, their bodies existing for a minute amount of time as if to say they hadn't existed at all and growing in size from matchbox size to their rhinoceros width bodies.  The stop sign to expanding its red hexagon body and white lettering:  STOP.  Samuel obeyed and realized he had been sweating immensely all over his t-shirt.   He wiped it away at the top of his forehead along his hair line, the back of his hand glistening with the run off like grease in the sunlight.   His breathing was labored, and he coughed from a pain of sharpness in his throat.  The whipping cars continued on by and he waited but felt the tendril hands of some monster encroaching upon his shoulder.  The man dead and forgotten on the pavement some mile or two behind him.  The cars kept going.   They didn't see him, they didn't acknowledge him all of those commuters on their way to work, and school.  On their ways to responsibilities and errands.  On their way to relaxations.

Then a lull, a moment of peace upon the street.   Samuel prepped himself and peddled across throwing his look to left and right over and over the entire way just in case some magical truck emerged to destroy him.   And as he pushed on forward he felt the talons on his neck lose grip and lose ground.   And then he was home.

He dropped his bike in the yard  and it clattered as its chain slapped against its metal bars.  He'd leapt from it and stumbled through the grass almost falling, and out of breath but he ran for the door and opened and slammed it behind him.  His bike alone in the grass obscured and forgotten.   Passed the kitchen and passed the living room he ran down the corridor to his parents bed side and he shook his mother awake.   She groaned and chastised him for the interruption to her dreaming, and he lamented, "There's a dad man on the bike path.   Really dead."  His breath was caught in the roof of his mouth and the sweat dripped off from his forehead.  But she tossed in her bed and moved her face away from his.   His father too hushed him, and Samuel gave up and returned to his room deciding that he'd be better to wake up twice to forget the whole affair as in dreams.