Positive Reinforcement

Let no man tear asunder you and your dreaming
Hold onto your joy with the utmost determination
For you are the creator of the tool,
And if you are living you can use it,
Though the forces of nature and of man will make to grip it with sharp steely fingers,
And they will grasp and pull,
And mutilate the hopes of retaining or recovering,
Should they take it,
But they cannot take it away,
Look inward, and find that you can bring it without,
When you are whole,
And if in some way you find the hopelessness always on you,
As some may have felt in days gone by,
Or still today in places about this big blue earth,
Rest it close behind somewhere behind thine eye,
So that when you eternally sleep it'll be just there,
On your eye lids etched in light,
Project from your inner eye, from your inner most soul,
And breathe easy, and then breathe no more.
For the rest of us, you do not suffer without end,
Stop the bickering and the crying,
For you are alive, and you are functional in this mass of snow,
You can defrost yourself from the ice,
And you can smile through the chill.

Words of Disservice

The tooth paste taste like play-doh
And the play-doh taste like foot cream
And the glue won't stick on me,
But the magnets will stick to you,
A thumb tack won't pierce these walls,
but a wrecking ball will pierce this house,
And the moon will shine on the sun,
While the sun shines on us all,
Salivating alligators will dream of desert islands,
And hungry will pigeon's will devour all mankind,
As the ozone layers makes us freeze over,
This heat wave will bring on the frost,
As sizzling bacon pops into soda,
And soda pop fuzzes into whipped toppings.
We'll eat our banana splits as we chew on a peach pit,
And the peach pit will break our molars which will fill us right on up.

A Simpletons Wish

Pinch me,
And bring me into reality,
Let me breathe,
Let me see it plain before me.
All the trees,
And all the disease,
Birds and beasts in the fields,
And the rushing roars of the seas.

Don't let me down,
But let me fall,
I need to learn to stand up,
But after that keep me on my toes,
Put your arm under mine and give me a boost.

Here in this place,
The haven of the lost,
Let us remember our patience,
For it will pay off,
So they old us.

Granted in dreams,
And cast into hells,
We will be okay in the end,
I can tell.

Okay let's start over,
Pinch me,
Im dreaming,
Good night,
I like it here,
Bring me back,
To this.

Silence! I'm Brooding on the Inside.

In the blink of an eye and a twitch of the wrist the bandages are torn from their sores,
Which bleed out only a little, and stop and clot, and harden into coarse little scabs,
But for those instances they are worried, they believe their pain will be beckoned again,
And they wait impatiently, and when it returns no more they sigh and invite a prayer skyward.
They feel blessed and rewarded for this day, the day the pain finally has gone away,
And though the scar will always be there, they will never have to think on it till they see it again.
As the summers pass, and the winters too, and one or two, or three hundred moons,
The people will still have the telltale signs of the wounds they received so long ago,
And when chance has come, maybe in the bath, when they see such marks,
They will invite in the occurrances as though they happened, just this past spring or so,
They'll see gnashing teeth, and forceful fists, sometimes gun barrels, sometimes blades,
And they will invite a tear to enter, but they'll make sure the room looks un-inviting, in there,
And the tears will not come, afraid of the room, afraid to bother the ogre who resides inside.
Some though, it can be noted, are not as strong as this, they will pester themselves with memory,
And like a fly, it will be damned if it goes to far away, for just as you think it has, its in your eye,
So the people will let in the misery, they will invite it to flood back in, and they will want to share it,
With the other wounded souls, and those are stronger, may become weak, but those who are strongest,
Will never be swayed, they'll be annoyed, for they've built a wall, and they'll be damned if a fly tears it down,
So it'll go on, the strong and the meak, the mighty and the weak, they will live together in disharmony,
They will try as they will, and they will try as they might, and fights will break out, and rocks slung,
But the people will live, and create new wounds, because of rememberance of old ones,
Wars will break out, treaties will be signed, and uneasy peace will resign on over their heads,
Till that one wrong remark, that one broken step, on shattered glass, and eggshells,
And in this place both like heaven and hell the human race will reside, until the very day that they die.

Visions of Futures Past

Let's play husband and wife today,
I'll be the old drunk bastard,
And you be the mousy little damsel,
You'll wear lots of flowers in your corner,
And i'll stomp about the garden in my coveralls,
We'll sleep together sometimes,
And verbally assault eachother all the others,
I'll win every time,
And you'll just slink away in cry,
When he go to face the public outcry,
We'll be perfectly peaceful,
We will put on happy faces,
And nearly no tears will leave your eyes.
Come on it'll be fun,
I'll act ten,
And you act twenty one,
I'll throw a tantrum,
And you'll light up a few,
And say "fuck you, I do what I want."
We'll get in wrestling matches,
And i'll always lose,
And i'll go on throwing them
The tantrums you started.
You'll brush off the issues with disdain,
And play the part of the intellectual coal,
Blackened by doubt and misunderstanding,
Misquoted because of your emotional overhaul,
Let's try it again,
This time i'll be the clown with a big red nose,
And you'll be the hooker, the whore that everyone knows,
I'll try to make them laugh,
You'll try to make them gasp,
And we'll all dance a jig,
About emptiness and light hearted pigs,
And once more for shits and giggles,
I'll be the defendant,
You'll be the plaintiff,
You'll try to take my kids away,
And i'll blackmail you all the way.

Prologue to the Night Flyer 1st Draft

Prologue

I am writing this letter to anyone willing to understand it. The choices i've made in life may have not always been the correct ones, but at the time I did not see the fault. Whether I was blinded by anger, or plain curiousity the decisions I made did have an undeniable impact on the landscape of my world. The two years that composed my journey were full of wonder, discovery, and peril. I saw things I never thought i'd see, and met people I never dreamed I'd meet let alone develop lasting bonds of friendship. Not all of them made it to the end, not all of them remain in contact with me, and none of them were ever the same, for better, or for worse. As I sat down to write this letter, I wanted to open with an apology to any of those I hurt, and I could blame it on naivety, on a young boys impulsive nature, but that would be wrong. I was of the age to fully understand my actions, and I did not always choose to. In the end I hope I have made amends with the world, I hope that it understood my intent, and my nature. I hope you will understand it most of all, you need to know that your father is a good man, but even good men can make mistakes.

It's best to start at the beginning, from the way I experienced it. I have kept silent these many long years on what actually took place, that only now, here at the end, do I have the strength and willingness to get it all out. I will not try to justify anyone elses motives, I only know my own. I was seven years old when my mother died, and in that short span of time that I knew her I can tell you that she was a beautiful and loving woman. She held me to her as a babe, and an adolescent, afraid to lose me. She never realized I would be the one who would lose her. Her name was Nadia, but I of course only ever her knew her as momma. In those developing years of my life she had always been ill, a cold here, a cold there. So it ddn't surprise me to see her wrapped tightly in blankets to shield out the cold, while bringing a hankerchief to her nose. Even I however; knew that the last time it happened, it was worse. The color had left her cheeks, her palms were clammy and cold, and her eyes became foggier and foggier, day by day.

I remember in those days my father kept his distance from her. In private he would cry, and curse the stars, or at least he thought. It was often I came upon that man near the chopping block, or on the bluffs just siting and sobbing, and angry. I would never let him know I was there, I knew what I was witnessing was something that he did not want anyone to see. The Joseph Grace I knew was strong and fierce. His face was a weathered mess, wind damanged, and bruised. At least thats how he looked at a glance. His eyes, though also wounded, held a glimmer of compassion, I knew he was a good man, but for many years I would not believe it, not after what he did to us. But I am getting ahead of myself.

My mother and her dirty golden locks strung out over her pillow, it is the image of her that I first see when I close my eyes. It is not a fond memory, and I wished I saw her healthier days. If I looked hard enough I often could see beyond that to a time she would sit with me during the summers on the shores of Placim. She would help me to build my sand castles, and allow me to stomp on them like a giant dragon of the old days. When the castle was gone, I would turn on her, and she would run along the shallow tide and I would follow, giving chase, stomping through as water splashed about me from the Corsian Sea, and often she would stop. If it wasn't to cough, she would be glancing off into the horizon at a distant shape that was little more than a speck of dirt. This was the Isle of Grimm. It was those moments that originally peaked my curiousity of the island and only later events - which I will of course reflect on in a moment - that cemented my resolve to seak it out. And there she was, frail, skinny, young, and beautiful, a combination of words I wish did not describe her so perfectly, staring out to sea dreaming of things my young mind would never understand.

My memories then returned me to the bed, the sickness, the color fading more from those pale cheeks. When she called for me - and even when she didn't - I would rush to her side, and lay upon her arm, with one armed wrapped around her. She would speak to me, staring up to the roof, and stroking my hair as she did it. "I love you." She never failed to say, not once, not ever. "When its just you and your papa," she would tell me, "you have to be strong. For him." At the time I didn't think anyone needed to be strong for Joseph Grace, but I always agreed to be, for my mom.

It was always my grandmother Moira who would lift me out of my mom's arms when we had fallen asleep, and carry me back to my own bed. I could never imagine my grandmother young, which I think is often the case with young people. She looked her age, but did not act it. While the wrinkles in her face, told the tale of a long life, her strength and her personality, which was full of humor and vibrance, did not give way that she was pushing seventy. She was the most loving woman I ever knew, and she would raise me into my teens all on her own.

The night my mother died was no different, I had fallen asleep upon her arm, but as was often the case I awoke when my grandmother went to collect me in her arms, but continued to pretend to be asleep. I heard my mother tell her to leave me there, my mothers voice frailer than usual, but also louder. She wasn't angry, but resolved to keep me by her side. "I know your awake, little man," she told me, and then proceeded to cough violently. I remember immediately sitting up, and taking my turn, I stroked her hair and told her I loved her. She smiled at me, and kissed my chin, which she could barely lift her head to do. "And that's all I need, little Simon. You angel." She fell asleep shortly after that. I laid my head on her chest and felt it slowly rise and fall, and eventually I too returned to my dreams. Sometime in the night - I can't be certain exactly when -something awoke me, it was a change in the surface my head rested on, it wasn't rising and falling anymore. Sitting up I saw my mother calm and peaceful. I leaned forward and kissed her cheek and told her I loved her one last time. I walked into the kitchen and there was my father and grandmother, they somehow knew immediately. My father did not respond when he stood up, he simply left the house in silence, only till he was outside did I hear the screaming. My grandmother was quiet tho, she walked into my mothers room, with me trailing behind her clutching to her evening gown. It wasn't until she pulled the blanket over my mothers head that I began to cry. My grandmother did not hesitate and picked me up, and patted my back. She sat with me on my bed, and somehow against my will I fell asleep.

It wasn't easy for my father to raise me. Sure, he wasn't on his own, he did have my grandmother, but she could only do so much. It wasn't long after my mothers passing that he would often leave us to journey inland to the capitol and other towns and villages of the Southern Kingdom. He lost himself in avoiding me at first, I was a foreign body to him, when he was home he would attempt to speak with me about matters of life, but they were awkward conversations at best. The knowledge he tried to depart would either frighten me or go over my head. It was around a year that he started staying closer to home. At first I wasn't sure if I liked him there, for my grandmother had doted upon me with love and affection as often as she could. She kept me close, helped with my studies. She taught me to read and to write better than I ever would have if she hadn't been present. But she refused to let me go out on my own, I always had to remain close. I use to think she was being overprotective, that she feared id simply be hurt by tripping on rocks, or getting caught up in thickets. When my father returned however; all of that changed. He removed me from my interior trappings, and taught me to fish, taught me to hunt. He had me carve my own spears, catch my own bait, and it was a rigorous time - nearly a years worth. This was all of course to my grandmothers horror.

Those were the best times I ever had with him. He was on a mission to depart as much knowledge as he could, to pass on the survivalist skills he knew. If I had known why at the time, I may have resisted. When he left, I wanted to throw all the new things I retained about trapping squirrels, and how to effectively use lures, about how to immitate the calls of wild birds, and how to construct a raft if I were ever stranded, I wanted to get them out. I wanted to forget them. I use to think that would get him to come back. But there I go again, getting ahead of myself. Those times, before he left, were perfect, I of course thought upon my mother, I never slept in her bed again, never entered the room if I didn't want to cry. My grandmother was their with her compassion, and my father was their with his lessons, and he broadended my horizons to the world around me. All I had ever seen was the village of Placim, and while I never journeyed too far out of its borders, it budded in me a prime curiousity. It was the best thing he gave to me, a thirst to experience more.

The night he left, was storming. Looking back, it had to be storming. There was an uncompromising downpour, the rain beat the earth, over and over and thudded against the roof of our small little shanty house. And there we were, my father, my grandmother, and I, sitting around the table. I was ten now, it was seven months till I was eleven. We were eating in silence, I remember the bacon was crispy, and burnt, because grandmother knew that was how I liked it. The goat milk was warm, I didn't drink any, but I remember picking up the glass to take a sip when those wounded eyes, beyond that weathered face turned to me. He tried to pass it off that he was going to town for supplies, but I knew it wasn't so. The man could never hide the truth from me, and I don't know if I would have realized it had he not glanced at me for a moment. I would like to think that he was conflicted, that he wanted to stay more than he wanted to go. That during that dinner he fought and wrestled with himself to the right course of action. I'd like to think that, but I think the final outcome was always going to be what it was, this wasn't something he had decided spur of the moment, this was something that had been boiling inside him, building pressure, until the day had come where he felt I was ready enough. He may have even tried to leave sooner.

He packed his things in a rush, which he never did. He had almost forgotten his hunting knives, which he always took, and if it wasn't for me noticing they weren't amongst his things, he would have forgotten them and never would have been the wiser. He kissed my grandmother on the cheek, and whispered something in her ear - she never told me what it was before she passed on but then again I never asked. He then came to me, which he never did, normally he would say his departing words at the door and tell me to be good for my grandmother, but this time he came to me and knelt in front of me. He reached inside his rucksack and took out a heavy sea shell that was attached to a necklace chain, and put it in my fist. His mouth made to say I love you, but he stopped himself, scoffed at his slip into compassion, and ruffled my hair. And like that he left the house. It sat uneasy with me, it was too strange, too final. My grandmother looked at me and told me to finish my meal, but I couldn't and for the first time I disobeyed her and made for the door. I ran as fast as I could, following his footsteps in the mud - which went south to the beaches, rather than north to where the roads were. The rain assaulted me all the way, as pellets of hail joined in the fray.

My father kept a small row boat he had built himself, he kept it along the old abandoned docks in the old part of Placim where the storms often assaulted the hardest - which was of course why they were eventually moved to a better location along the west shore of Placims penninsula. The boat was dingey, and full of ware. This was where he was, and as I arrived there after flying as fast as my feet could take me he was inside the boat. He had just finished untying the lines when he saw me. He yelled nothing to me as I slowed my pace to walk along the docks. The wind was favorable for him that day attacking the tides to push outwards to sea, his boat was already farther off than I expected it to be. I would have jumped after him had it been closer. As it was however, even I was not foolish enough to do so. With his back turned to me he picked up his oars and readied them, and he never looked back. I was ten years old as I stood there, drenched to the bones, barefoot and afraid. I watched him till I could see him no more against the black night, and the lightning strikes. I hugged my arms about me for warmth, and I saw in the distance the Isle of Grimm, that small speck silhouetted in a thunderous light. And between my mothers glances and my fathers departure, the Island became an infatuation.

Before I finish this first letter I should speak at length on the Isle of Grimm as I knew of it. A legendary place, my father had brought me around it once, it had taken days to make the whole trip, and it towered above us as rock bluffs that seemed to stretch on miles high. As far as I knew no one had ever been there, it was impenetrable, and inaccesible. The bluffs were overgrown with thorny ivy, and sharp rocks and choppy waters made it often unsafe to stay near it for any great length. My mother always staring at it, my father headed towards it, it was for the next five years of my life my passion to watch it. My ten year old self trapped somewhere inside these bones, brought me to the end of that dock and made me wait. Made me wait for a man that never returned to me, but if he would ever have done so, I would have been the first to know. Five years after he left was where my journey began, with humble beginnings I looked after my grandmother, and looked out for my father, and remembered my mother every day. And I dreamed of Grimm and what secrets it would hold, secrets I was far too eager to uncover.

Predictable Texts

Good-bye,
I know we didn't know each other long,
But I don't want to be forthcoming,
In my sordid departure,
Sure its full of hateful words,
And spiteful tears,
But somewhere deep inside,
There's a lollipop gum drop,
Floating on a marshmallow cloud,
Underneath a cotton candy sun,
And although we both know,
None of it is really so,
We will try and say hello,
One day, again,
We will find a place that just makes sense,
Where the mundane is great, and we are okay with being content,
Let's go ahead and wait for that,
Of sitting in silence,
I'll do the crossword puzzles,
While you play scrabble with your alphabet soup,
And when we're bored,
We will talk in rhymes,
And digest riddles,
And in decomposition underneath the dirt,
We will wish we had been put in different plots,
We would argue over headstones,
And the misspelling of our last names,
And even in hellfire,
We would only find irritation in our simplicities,
Complexity to be honest is what we both need,
A world that no one else deems possible,
But the dreams of dreamers are seldom ever the same,
So Good-bye,
Little fox,
Hiding under the floor boards,
You were clever back then,
But not cleaver today,
Tomorrow maybe,
But yesterday has passed,
Let's rehearse our lies,
And put on a show,
Which every one will know,
Is a show full of lies,
About yesterday,
And today,
And nothing like our real tomorrow.
So go on,
Call it all peaches and creams,
Eat your yogurt dip,
And take it all in,
You'll see the monkey with a banana inserted firmly,
In it's red monkey ass,
And you'll curse the sky,
Until you find better words to be comforted by,
Then all this shits out the window,
And someone elses top ten records,
Will occupy your playlist,
And you'll shuffle it,
And put it on repeat,
Each song and then everything,
Again and again,
And when its spun out of control,
It'll fly across the room,
And shatter on the bathroom mirror,
So watch your step,
And mind your manners,
Your mothers stopping by.

In the Back of the Mind - a short story

When they opened the door, Jerry and Dennis found only horror.  Inside the tomb was a cascade of broken heirlooms, picture frames, and the like.  Both men stepped in side, and it was as though it was a portal in time, as memories flooded there minds like a deluge.  In one corner Jerry saw his mother rocking him in her old dusty rocking chair, well he recalled it was only dusty later in life, after she passed, the memories were meshed together.  Upon her face she wore the expression she was buried in, like it was glued there, but the rest of her was very much as he recalled.  She rocked him back and forth humming a sweet little tune, as if a broken record replaying over and over again, she never quite finished the last word, till she was jumping into the next one, and starting all the way over from the beginning.  Jerry stepped in closer to examine his younger self, a young Jerry who sucked on his thumb as if it might be gone tomorrow, and the way it never strayed from his mouth, it seemed like it'd never last the day.
Dennis on the other hand saw his father.  A bottle of scotch in one hand, a stark gray business suit and a faded red tie, his arm resting over the mantle, and a blue fire glowing cold in the stone worked fire place.   His father was giving one his famous speeches, about responsibility and pride, and how the world was headed toward hellfire.  Dennis thought he was talking to him, but then young Dennis materialized out of the air, as if he were stepping through fog.  Their father placed his arm on Dennis' shoulder, and put down the drink he had been holding.  Young Dennis was so innocent, and looked on in such dumbfounded-ness, as their father reached for a red hot poker that had been resting in the fire.  Dennis' fingers had already reached for the scar on his cheek, he knew what was coming next, he'd always remembered.  On impulse he lunged forward, and grabbed the memory father's arm and lifted it back.  Or so he thought.  As hard as he pulled the arm wouldn't budge.  And the poker was pressed upon the young boys face.
Jerry looked over at the screams of his brother, as Dennis punched air.  Cursed it, and belittled it, and reminded it that it deserved was punishment too.  Jerry shook his head, he couldn't see the memory, for Jerry had been a man, when Dennis was just a boy.  He had heard of course, during drunken breakdowns into broken conversation of the stories of the days he wasn't there.  Neither was their mother.  And every time Jerry visited thereafter the chair was never used.  Dust piled upon it, and when a breeze rolled through the house, it brushed upon the chair just enough, that Jerry swore he'd start believing in ghosts.
Dennis' anger subsided, he let his memory father go, and told his memory self to hold on.  He told him that one day he'd have the love of his wife, what he didn't tell her was that she would leave him, ten years into marriage, and take all four kids with her.  He wouldn't tell the boy that he would work hard to care for the kids, that he would never see again.  And he would leave out the part where he beat her, his younger self didn't need to know that at all.
Both brothers reunited by the coffin in the center, inside was a man, and a woman.  There mother and father, and the mausoleum they built.  Placing one hand on his brothers back, Jerry stroked it softly, and apologized as he done before.  He had never come back, and for that he felt guilty.  And for years he helped keep his brother afloat.  He himself had taken a lover, a man by the name of Gil.  He was happy with his man, and wished his mother had known him too.  For years Jerry lived in complete blindness to the horrors his younger brother endured at home, he waited on Gil hand and foot, letting their love flood his time. 
Dennis knew his brother back then, sort of.  Whenever father would let him visit, and he liked Gil who use to carry him on his shoulders, and throw an old baseball around.  But it was always in secret and never at home.  On those loving days when his brother and his friend would surprise him in town.  They'd spend hours together playing catch, and sometimes simply talking.  Their father had met Gil only once, and once was enough for that old bastard man.
Dennis had married a woman named Claire, she was good to him, and tried as hard as she could to make him happy.  But what Dennis saw in her was nothing, for his own mother was never there.  At first he thought he'd find someone unlike his mother, who was always absent, quiet and deceased.  Clair was alive, constant, and loud, and in good ways.  She was full of life, till she became his wife, and then all went to hell.  Through eight more years and three more kids they'd tried to make it work.  And sometimes it did, but Dennis knew a few bright days were not enough to keep the demons at bay.  She was right to leave, and Dennis was right to be angry, he came to terms with it when he died a few years later, with a shotgun against his cheek.
Jerry lived long, he lived good, and with regret.  He wished as he may, and he wished as he might, he could have taken away that sore, that blight on his brothers soul.  And Jerry lived a long life, full of love with his partner Gill, and there were arguments and blaming, loving and comforting, it was bittersweet, and mostly just sweet.  Gil when first, and shortly after, maybe two or three days, Jerry followed.  When he died he was grey.  But when he awoke in this place he was young again.
Now here they were together, taking it all in, Dennis never entered, he sat in the dark and in the void, till his brother arrived to hold his hand.  And that's what Jerry did, and together they endured the life flash together and Jerry had wished it always had been, and Dennis was okay, not happy, but just okay, and that was good.

We Got This

Reality television,

Poisoned their minds,

And that's how half the world dies.

Sorry for the spoiler,

But the books been left unopened.

 

It was plainly infront of our faces,

The answer to our inquiries

But we never took the time to,

You know, to inquiry.

 

In the end we did it,

We broke out skulls on the edge of pools,

And shot ourselves in the eyes,

With BB guns,

And took the cartoons off the market.

 

We attempted re-entry,

But the shuttle never even left the ground

We practiced our acceptance speeches,

Before we wrote our first words,

And we prayed, after we continued to believe in Santa Clause.

 

And they said,

We told you so,

And I simply responded,

Its not over yet,

We're still young,

And when I reached the age of Eighty two,

The answer was still the same,

I'm Eighty-two years young,

I still have time to begin it,

The itch at the back of my brain.

Shrinking Arguments

We only had a moment, but a moments all we need
Now we are riddled with sickness and disease,
We poisoned each other with hurtful words,
Or the apparent lack of any words at all,
And here we go descending,
down, down, down.

The fable will always end the same, and have the same moral,
It'll preach its message plainly, but never quite the same,
Small differences in who and what are non-constant,
But eventually you'll see the light,
In another persons,
Thoughts.

Brisk is the walk of the ashamed, and the accused as well,
They both try to run, and try to hide in vain,
Even if they think they did it triumphantly,
They are only lying to themselves,
And everyone else,
Around.

Do not think my words to fickle, do not think them crass,
They are just words after all, verbal sticks and stones,
And the names will always hurt you,
Maybe not now, but once true,
They will bring you,
down, down, down.

They say that patience is a virtue, so its clear they never knew you,
Never walked a hundred miles in your shoes in the mud and rain,
Never faced the adversities you have faced, with grace, and pain,
Didn't have to take a breath, just to take a step forward,
Will never know the satisfaction of yelling out,
And breaking down the doors of frustration,
To see into the void like no one else can,
And with a final thought on your mind,
You'll bottle it up, because you know,
That to unleash it now, well,
That would be a waste,
All the years waiting,
Patiently of course,
A waste for her,
because of,
her angry,
soul.

So!
They screamed,
All of them one by one,
What's the story of the day,
And I tried in vain to explain,
But still they waited to hear it all,
Through the rain, and sleet and now,
No one was going to destroy this almighty show,
And when the words never came, I threw down my book,
And told them all to take a hike, I was never doing this for them.

So please,
Gently remove it,
You know what I mean,
The thing that's got your panties,
Your panties in a twist,
And think a moment,
Because soon,
It'll be done,
All over,
Gone.

Paradise Misplaced.

By and by,
I see the light,
On the other side of those trees,
Where people care,
And people see with eyes wide open,
And mouths wide shut,
In the other place,
Where the universe forgot,
They forgive the forgiveable,
And punish the rest.

And so it goes,

They forget that they forget,

And they give it time,

When the wound won't close,

The candies they chew,

Will get them high,

And break their wallets,

And make their mouths dry.

The symptom persisted, 

And the sickness grew,

But the place in the pines,

Was growing like gold,

The silver was plentiful,

And the bronze was scarce,

Not that anyone cared,

When they were happily eating gummy bears,

And snorting coconut oils.

Prayers continue in the night,

And the dreams are sweet,

Nothing morbid may enter,

Though cynicism  is always about,

It will not eat the censorship,

But the censors may eat them.

And when the lord the savior

When he came around

he still walked on water,

And made it sweet wine,

He placed his hands in that place,

And made it breathe lightly,

While he tread heavily through the brush,

He appreciated the noise,

The flutter of sparrow wings,

But he didn't like the site,

Only for one reason,

The smell of smog emitting from the earth.

It's a wonderful feeling,

Being content,

Because if you are wanting the best,

Always the best,

You will fall much farther down,

And break your ass,

And feel the pain, 

You snake in the grass.

Away he rose, 

And the animals returned,

Ashamed to bask in his glory,

Or maybe jealous,

That his father,

Made them just so,

With no brains,

And only instinct,

And they wished as they may,

Oh they wished as they could,

For their meadow is sacred,

They are in with their fold,

Only them,

The men come sure,

But they sure as hell go,

And they have no one to shoot them,

No one to look down in condescending tones,

Not that the lord the savior would dare do such a thing,

But they are animals,

What the hell do they know.

In the briefest of scenes,

We see the squirrel and the  coyote,

Playing fetch with a pine cone,

And then descending into  murderous intent,

As the squirrel is torn  limb from limb,

And afterwards the coyote is run over,

By a galloping buck,

On his way to find a mate,

On his way to fu-

Digression I will heed,

In the sugar cane fields,

On the other side of paradise.

Good bye cruel world,

This is the beginning though,

No end,

No painful parting words,

No plain spoken depression,

I will not find that place,

It will be just so,

It'll be beautiful and necessary,

And it'll be balanced and sure,

It'll be content,

But not contemptable,

Not something to look up or down on,

It makes it easier,

Like that place in the forest,

Which by the way,

Is in your own damned backyard.

Grief, and the Color Yellow

The pageant had taken the girls life,
Taken it where they did not know,
But she was gone, while wearing a gown,
And the word around town was, it was self-inflicted,
No, no slit wrists or gunshot wounds,
No burns around her neck from a rugged rope,
But her soul was bruised, black and blue,
Bruises, that were the size of her fists,
And the size of her anger and self-loathing.

Her tiara was  lopsided on her lifeless head,

And her expression was crooked digust,

And the breathing freshly alive girl in the mirror began to cry.

She walked out of the room and into the hallway,

Beyond in the distance, from another room she heard the murmurs,

From all the people waiting to see her, and her talents on display,

She put on her smile as she stood in the door way to the stage,

And the host motioned for her to come forward,

And kissed her on the cheek, where no man had kissed her before.

She did the tricks, and she displayed her talents,

She tried as she may to be proud of them,

But nothing came out, in her soul she was gone,

Her make up was thick, but her self-disgust thicker,

She wouldn't win again, and she didn't want to,

To have to push aside her dissappointments would be too much,

To finally embrace a success she never knew,

It wouldn't be right, she'd have to be a new person,

And her mother would have no use for her.

They carted away the corpse,

In one of those old WWI trucks,

While a collection of just as old-fashioned nurses,

Stitched and toiled away on the woundless body,

Making it bleed what it couldn't bleed,

Making some gaps in flesh, to come up with a better reason for its demise,

Than that she gave up and shut off,

That's what computers do, and in the new day and age it may be so,

But its not so simple, and her soul was dead and scarred.

Behind the curtain the host touched her bottom,

And fondled her breasts, and she tried to push him away,

It wasn't until a wandering mother came by that he stopped,

The soulless girl ran from  the curtain back to her dressing room,

And locked the door behind her, and stared at the nothing in the mirror,

The reflection was gone and taken away,

The crime scene had been wiped clean,

And she smiled, or, at least she thinks she smiled,

But, she couldn't see.

Tomorrow brought on new challenges,

And the girl was empty,

And like a marionette did the tricks,

All the tricks her mother had taught her,

Like a dog, tarred and rebuked until it got it right,

She was fashioned to be this way,

Knowing only what she knew, and never allowed to wonder more,

And in distress she'd shoot herself again,

With rage, and hopelessness,

And her nine lives would continue to be up.

The mass grave of the plague victims made a perfect place,

and they heaved and ho'd her body there,

Amongst the black and boiled bodies of the long ago departed, 

And with those roses in her hair,

And that lovely yellow dress, she stuck out like a sore thumb,

And on her face was no remorse,

Because for that of course, she would have to be complete,

She was only half a person,

The world made sure of that.

Brief and Negative.

A smart man once told me never to trust the world,
Because the world would never trust you with its money.
He said it may seem like a good investment,
But it'll eventually be abused and misplaced,
You're wrong, he said to me, in all you do,
Do not forget that,
And in the end I did, and now I live in shit,
With shit stained shoes.

Repetition, Repetition, Repetition.

In a light skirmish the infantry men all fell,
From both sides not a single man resumed the life he had before,
They lay their with the weapons at their sides or inside another,
Blood made a pool about their corpses,
And the smell of gun powder and fear was high in the air,
As as the sun set, and then rose again,
No one cared to carry any of them away,
None of them were buried, and none of them were burned,
Except by the scorching rays of a frightening summer sun.

Back home their wives and their children assumed the worst,
But they never sought out their husbands and their fathers,
And years would pass and they'd always wonder whatever happened,
It was either MIA or KIA, and they never asked much more.

In a bright sacred light the infantry men all rose,
Above to heaven not a single man wasn't ressurected,
Into a bright white heaven with their brothers at their sides,
And their enemies too, with no blood and no wounds,
A scent of roses and daisies blanketed them in its sweet cologne,
And each man was wearing pearly white robes,
And when God the father greeted each man,
He wrapped his loving arms around them,
And called each of them brother.

Back home their sons and their daughters, and their re-married wives,
All pondered the lost, forgotten and gone,
But no more tears were shed, the men were long ago memories,
Bittersweet, and happy, or down right hellish thoughts,
A cornucopia of emotion on their fractured minds,
And when the women passed away, their new loves, and their children would follow soon.

In that broken silent night the infantry men all rested,
And when their spouses and offspring arrived they were over joyed,
It seemed like only yesterday that they were stabbed, shot or beatin,
And their loves never aged a day.
In each man, woman and childs eyes they saw each other in the ways they remembered,
And a new earth began in here,
And God went up one more floor,
Where he would meet the next bloody mess,
With open arms.

How to Disappear Completely, a novel false start.

Moira awoke that chilly September morning as she did every day of her life.  First to the sound of a agonizing beeping from her digital alarm clock blasting its flashing red numbers in her face as she rolled over on her pillow to check the time.  This was proceeded by a moment of dozing off after hitting the snooze button at least twice, and if she was feeling lucky, maybe a third.  But, let's just say Moira rarely felt lucky.  After the repeated snooze presses she would eventually relent to the irritating noise, and sit up in bed, stretch out her arms, and yet out a long yawn.  Even if she felt no need to yawn, she would force it out, to get it out of the way, as if she couldn't let it interfere with the rest of her routine.  As she made her way to her small one bedroom apartment's kitchen she tried to gather her thoughts, think of things that needed to be done, anything to distract her from free roaming thought.  It was in this walk that she would plan out her simplistic day.  Those thoughts were filled with debate on what to wear to work, what to eat for breakfast, what book to read next - as she was always reading at least three novels at once.  In this planning period she would also map out her work day, and hope to god Sally Dennis would not be there, she would hope this because with the exception of Ms. Dennis no one else would ask her anything other than work related questions.  Moira hated interrogations about her day, her plans, her past, everything, if she had to talk about anything, she could of course lie her way through, but in her ideal world she would have to make a peep.  After her pondering walk to her kitchen she put a single slice of bread in her double-slotted toaster, and mix herself a mug of instant coffee and sit at her little table and ate the bread slowly, and deliberately.
Moira it can be said preferred her isolation.  She had no friends.

Nonsense Before Insanity

So they told them to purge their thoughts,

To eat gummy bears,

And feast on moldy pears,

And to process everything that they soughts,

To many times they pleaded to die,

In apples and lollipops,

and gum drop buttons,

And as the world whisked away the worry,

The worry swallowed the world whole,

And in desperation the world poisoned itself,

Just to destroy the worry,

And as the mango trees brought forth bugs
Mothers came to collect the milk jugs
As little boys hurld rocks like rifle round,
And shattered the glass on the ribbons of licorice alleys.

Oxymorons in the View of the Moon

Lets be honest
Just for fucks sake.

When the world was new, 

A bearded indvidual dip his toe in my tea,

And tried to make out with me.

He was large and in charge,

And carried a big stick where he walk.

Translation:

When I was a child,

Someone told me a  lie,

And I lapped it up,

Because it was dad,

and my dad always speaks gospel to me.

Lets be honest

Just for gods sake.

Bridges will burn in hellfire,

Where satan dwelleth under, and the people will fret,

While trolls are trampled on,

And goodness gracious won't be simple words,

They'll be the words of the day,

Like A is for Apple, and T is for trouble.

Translation:

On a high rise,

People would go,

Not in any way they wanted,

Concrete graves,

But God above was their

And the people would pray

For what else could they do.

I'll be honest,

I'm still just telling lies.

Burdens on Shoulders.

He took out his stationary and made to write the letter,
A sad little thing full of apologies and self rebuke,
But none of it would come forth out of the tip of his pen,
And he loomed over his desk with no thought to pronounce,
That is when he packed it all a way,
For another sad, bottom rung day.

As the next one came upon him, he sat himself down,
Everything was before him, and he wanted to get it out,
The tool, gripped between thumb and forefinger would not react,
His hand was motionless, and his tears were void,
The sad little principles that he wanted to spill,
Were all blocked up, and made safe in his head.

Years passed, and he thought perhaps now,
Now, he could relieve the tension between his regret and his hope,
A layer of dust blanketed his kit, and with his palm he wiped it clean,
He took out his pen, and he took out his paper, and he set himself before it.
He stared for a quarter of an hour, fumbling on where to begin,
With the name, or "i'm sorry" or "how can I put this",
And when he settled on what would begin it, he broke down into sobs.

To get control of his emotions, he removed himself from his post,
Not abandoning it, just letting it rest a moment,
So that the letter would be clear and precise,
Not a trashed mess of emotion and self-inflicted gunshot wounds,
And when he returned to it, the first thing he wrote was,
"To whom it may concern...." and as the pen met the paper,
It never was far from it for another half an hour.

With three pages down, and his wrist growing sore,
He finished up his last thought, and wiped a fleeing tear from his cheek,
The sunlight made the dust particles sparkle about him,
It's ray landing just before him, and upon the words,
And what he spoke through his utensil was beautiful and right,
He scanned it once more to make sure it was all their.

As he strolled to his mailbox after sealing and stamping his envelope,
He placed it inside, and raised the flag, and placed his hand upon the box,
His heart was heavy and his mind was fractured, the worries of the world were light,
The places he was at within his psyche were inside that sealed envelope,
And he could feel free, and see into the future clearly, and that was good.

So he dropped the flag upon that box, and removed his letter,
It was light now, pieces of paper inside a piece of paper,
With chicken scratch on both,
It surely was not the heavy burden it was once before,
And as a heavy breeze blew on him, he shredded it into tiny pieces,
And let it dance away, never to be needed again.

Under False Pretenses.

The passion play started out easy enough,
She said will I? of course,
And he, well he changed his mind,
Took it back, and walked away,
Left her in tears and utter dismay,
To know for certain,
And then take it all away.

As the second act opened up,
She wrapped a rope around her neck,
And he broke in and saved her,
Only to shoot her in the back,
When she thought everything was back to normal.

In the final scenes they set him in the electric chair,
But the governor pardoned him for no apparent reason,
And when the mourning family of the girl appeared,
They hugged him and forgave him, and invited him over for christmas.

As the curtain closed, the audience was appalled,
And for good reason, as the actors took their bows,
The were bombarded with tomatoes and cigarette butts,
For the no smoking signs were never turned on.

A Little Liar

I heard you were happy, then you weren't,
I heard you were sorry, then you weren't,
I heard you make promises, and I saw you break them,
And in you I saw myself, blank, desperate and full of misused miserable misgivings,
And in hope in what you had inside your whole self,
It was not a enough to pardon the pirating hordes from stealing everything you wanted.

I last tried to find the truth, but all the lies sifted in with the gold,
I last tried to understand your miserablesness, but it resulted in my own happinesss,
I last tried to focus in on the tapestry you mangled on your way out,
But instead of trying to mend it I threw it into the brush fire,
That I started to destroy the trees that bloomed outside my windo.
I was not enough to pardon anything, not anything at all, you still held on your own happiness.

I wanted to be better than this,
But I was tired of trying,
I was tired of being okay,
When I wanted to be great,
I wanted more than nothing,
More than everything too,
In the greatest paradox, the falling stars, that fell on you.

Stardust particles, that sprinkle down like grains of sand upon the beach,
Vanishing into the mountains, forever.