The White Noise

My open mouth spills out white noise
Because I cannot bring it to dictate
That which bothers the morose nature
That is hidden beneath linear smiles
Which can be determined as false
Based on the make up that composes it
In this way they finally figured me out
They took the chance to toss the flag
Wave away the motion to kill us all
My open mouth leaks the white noise
It cannot help but insult the wayfarer
It is in all honesty my heel
Poised for destruction based on an arrow
And its direction
My open mouth is dripping white noise
Because that is all it can do
Let's be honest about the truth
Let's be honest and say its false
A means to an end, and a method
A method to save face
Because who can tell where hell ends
And where this earth begins
My open mouth is a disaster waiting to happen
When I speak I cause tremors
When I argue I bleed the trees
and when I scream I kill the universe
This is because I am a tool
My open mouth is white noise
My opnion is a cluster of grey fuzz
My emotions are the insects that cause itching
My choices are insignifcant
When I spew out the facts
They are seen as lies
When I spew out the reasons
They are seen as excuses
And when they do the same
I'll be the recipricol
I'll be their oppressor
Becuase I hold the grudges
That no one admits they hold
When I am wrong
My white noise is right
And when I am positive
My white noise is negative
Let the static annoyances of your determination
Slice open the cyst that is the human condition
Look to this lesson
As I have planned it
And think me foolish
For praying to the white noise.

Hero

Half the brain moved to the other side,
And shifted its luggage like it was due or die
The world doesn't care if skulls are present
The Brain demands what the brain can
As the faded fables accumulate and brain cells go and deteriorate
It becomes the proximation of the ending
Because though the books are open the mind is lost
It jumps where it can moves where it wants
But the host is stoic and lost
Faded and just simplisticly mute
Watching games, and not computing
That in order to grow they must do more interacting
As the acicidity eats the way
The worms prepare for the day they get to feast
On the rotting emptiness
Of this, our planet earth.

The Big Picture

They bled on the roses
But no one could tell.
But the failings of the gardener
eventually gave way to revelation.
By then though it was too late
The bodies were gone.
It's too late in the night,
And carrion have devoured the impressions.
The roses were not bothered though,
For they were just flowers,
And people were just disease.

Countdown - A short story

Peter felt rather relieved that his fiance had spent a decidedly small amount of the small fortune he thought would be required for the wedding that she wished.  He knew she had compromised ideas and worn herself thin with worry and second-guessing, but she had been frugal and for that he was happy.   It wasn't that he didn't want to spend the fortune for a day that was - hopefully - a one time occasion in his life, but he felt rather bothered by the hullabaloo that went into the day.  Quite plainly Peter thought it silly to spend several months pay on a ceremony when they would later have a lesser amount for their honeymoon.  All in all he was satisfied with her choices, and the fact that he'd be able to spend more at a later time on their vacation.

The big day was at the end of the week, and while the wedding excited him it also placed in his toes a coldness familiar with anxious wedding participants.  He wasn't second-guessing that he loved her but he was second-guessing if he thought he could handle the commitment.  The idea of having to be present for this singular person at least ninety percent of his life, and to start a family and commit to vows that he was terribly afraid to break set in his marrow with a weight not unlike terror.   The terror of failing was his worry.  His feet though cold were not cold on the thought of his bride but on the failings of himself as a human being.

Screw it, he figured, if things didn't work out they were adults.  They could come to a mutual conclusion and understanding that things weren't working and then they could go on their separate ways.  They were big enough people to conquer that pitfall of unhappily married people.  Peter didn't like thinking such things, but he could not help himself.  Statistics about failed married life flooded his head like a growing flu epidemic.  The information was always present to him, if not by some internet headline then it was his mates who would ask him if he was sure and he always quite confidently said of course. 

They didn't hate Peters fiance either, at least he thought, she was quite plainly one of the party and he saw once in awhile hints of jealousy that he had nabbed her before they had had a chance to sink their talons into her.   Peter didn't see her as a prize he won, again he was a realist.  They complimented and benefited each other, the fact that she had a higher level of attractiveness was just a bonus though in the end her redeeming qualities outside of physicality were enough to recommend her to the world.   She could talk to him on end about the geekiest items, but also happily debate their political differences.  It was, Peter thought, almost unreal that he had found her.  He sank into his love seat in their downtown apartment, and sighed to himself even then; however, that sinking feeling set in.

He was bothered by his return to the what ifs of life, but he thought it inescapable.  There had to be an escape plan.  If she was unhappy he wanted to let her know that she could go, and he hoped that she would do the same.  He didn't want to be unhappy, and he always heard that marriage was work, but just in case he wanted terms.  That seemed at odds with the day though.  He doubted himself more.

He didn't like the fact that this was flooding his head now.  He wanted to talk to his fiance about it but he didn't want to bother her.  If he was feeling this way, he was sure that announcing it would only serve to terrify her that the man she was marrying didn't fully love her.  That wasn't the case.  People could fall out of love, but still love right.  He then began thinking about what love even meant.  He then began thinking of his parents.

They had been married for so long, but were less happy for just as many years.  Often they had slept in different rooms, and had spent their days doing opposite things.  As a child he thought nothing of it because those were the roles that were required of them.  She was a homemaker taking care of him and his siblings, and doing the laundry and washing the dishes, and his father worked for countless hours and demanded supper be ready and his house maintained.  That was ordinary.  Then as he got older Peter saw this system change, he saw the independence of all the girls about him, and he didn't want them to be reduced to his servant. The thought almost disgusted him.  Peter wanted whoever he was with to have their own identity, and specific roles were not only not necessary they were highly discouraged.  Through this lens that developed on through his adolescence and into adulthood he began to see his parents relationship as a sham.  They had stayed together out of some misplaced adherence to old religious rules and that was terrifying.  What if Peter once married changed his mind about what he wanted.  What if he in some unconscious way slowly became his father and belittled his wife's feelings, and let her waste away alone as house maid of an empty house.

He shook his head, and sighed again.  He thought about sins of fathers being passed down onto their sons, he thought of genetics and all of these gaps that were slowly filled in with the familiar bile of societies masculine trappings.   Would he always feel so content that his bride was her own person, or would he want her eventually to fall in line and be his property.  He grabbed a class of water and swallowed a few painkillers, the thoughts were piercing his head and he needed to clear his mind.   

The marriage was a bad idea he began to see.  All the bullshit about everlasting love and soul mates, and best friends forever and all the usual suspects of expectations.  Peter didn't want to destroy her so he instead destroyed himself.

Then the door opened and she walked in.  She could feel his unease because the first thing she said when she saw him there with his blank expression was, "What's the matter?"  So he told and ruined everything.

Lament of a House Cat (A Short Story)

The cat sat poised to strike.  It did not strike; however, it could have if that was indeed its intent.  In all actuality the cat simply wanted to give off the appearance of fierce quality until the human walked away.  It was the smaller one with the smelly hands, and screeching screams.  The one that cackled and laughed obnoxiously like some deranged beast.   The bigger ones made louder rumbles upon the wooden floors but they were not nearly as damaging as that savage, wandering about in nothing but white fabric around its nether regions.  The cat relaxed itself a bit when the chubby red stained fingers moved on to another part of the house.  It stretched out its body and claws as it had been ruptured from a deep sleep.

The leap from the chair to the floor was minor but having been in a sound sleep the cat's limbs were fuzzy and unsure as if trying to reclaim all the memory of their uses.  It managed though landing with mostly grace with only the most watchful of beings able to see that a microscopic distance was changed on its traditional landing.  The cat stretched again at that point taking in the surface of the wood upon the pink under its paws.   It was cool, and it had been cool for the passed few months letting it know that outside the white devils were still flooding the yard and it was contained inside of the wooden box with the human people.   The toddler squealed off in the next room and the cat's ears perked up absorbing the atmosphere of the room.  It contemplated with a simple look returning to the dining room chair but decided against it, after all it had taken the time to wake up it mine as well eat or drink or defecate.  The cat figured it would eventually do all three before finding a new place to sleep.

Again the toddler cried out in excitement and something in another room hit the floor with a thud.  The cat was afraid.  It felt the bristle of defense tickle down its spine and puff out its tail.   The last time that beast had touched it the aroma of peanut butter had been stuck upon the back of its neck just where it couldn't reach.   Eventually the bigger humans had held it down in the shower and washed its entire body and the fur clung to its frame and the cat felt as one naked.  Feelings of humiliation plagued the cat that entire afternoon until the last fraction of moist fur had dried to its original quality.  The time before that the monster had gripped its tail in a vice and yanked it back along the wooden floors despite the cat's best efforts to dig its nails into the boards.  If only the cat had been awake that time then the extra seconds would have been enough to get it safely under the masters bed where the toddler and its chubby body just couldn't fit.

The cat looked around the kitchen.  Up, down, left, right, forward and behind.  Any direction that the cretin could wander out in frantic and horrid footsteps intent on causing it pain.   It's heart raced with the old memories ever since the atmosphere of the home had devolved from a place of placid simplicity, where long stretches of time the cat could rest and ponder the surroundings in a heavenly quiet.  Slowly one of the masters had grown wider and then a crying demon invaded that space and the cat was abused with audible beatings that popped its ear drums and pinched at the canal like passages therein.

The water soaked the cats tongue and it was silent then.  The feline felt warmth then, felt that old familiarity.  Those good old days when it could wander on upon the sofa by its masters legs and smell the distinct smell of cheese puffs and spilled beer.  When it had been young and careless, and wanted nothing but to play and know that it was loved.  Underneath those hairy arms and in a ball.   Even before the other one had become a more frequent visitor and expanded her belly.

The toddler stomped about a little closer, but not within the room.  The cat knew it did not have much time to drink, and if it continued it would have no time to eat.  The tongue took one last lap upon the life drink and then took a hard piece of dried food in its mouth and it crunched between its teeth.  There had been a time when the food had even been better.  After the cat had been removed from its brothers and sisters, from the warm teat of its mother and had been terribly afraid.  When the food had been softer and the calming petting had been more frequent when it was all that its master needed.   They had a symbiotic relationship for such a long time that the cat was confused when it was all but extinguished.  The cat used to be able to tell his moods, and his temperament, when to beg for a piece of human food and when to not, when to invade his sorrowful space and when to stay on one side of the room.  There had been small moments when the cat had been told secrets that it never should have known, and even if it had understood the man's tongue it would not have shared.  The toddler stomped again, and the cat was satisfied with the four mouthfuls of dried food it had gathered and went into the laundry room to relieve itself.

The laundry room was home to the loud rumbling monster inside the great white box.  The beast who wet the clothes then burned them dry.  Why the human beings used the boxes was not for the cat to decide but it did learn quick that the monsters were well confined so that even when they rattled louder than normal on some days it did not matter as much as the encroaching clumsiness of the toddlers running.  Still, the cat did not like to stay in that room any longer than was absolutely necessary.  It took the time to cover its excrement properly because the cat after all was more proper than the other animals and leaving it exposed was a disgusting habit.  Except, inside that dirt box the cat was hard pressed to find an empty spot in that neglected space.

In the doorway from the laundry room the cat peered out from left to right ensuring that it was not to be pounced upon.  It wandered down the hallway to the masters study.  Where a small desk with a picture box sat and a comfy chair with rolling wheels housed the hulking body of the master.  The cat approached him and saw that the master was in clothing that left the bottom of his legs exposed and it was an opportunity to make its presence known.  It moved in but then the rushing footsteps of that gleeful mutt encroached upon the possibility of old tranquility and were quickly in that room.  It's hands were on the cat in a matter of seconds, because the cat had backed toward its master hoping that the man would save it but the man did not.  The red stained fingers got stuck upon the fur and the fingers gripped a tuft of it and in turn pinched a space of flesh and it pained the cat.  It cried out and the man did not move to help.  The fist tightened and little fingernails attempted to pierce its flesh the cat cried momentarily but knowing that the man would not help it had to help itself.

The claws emerged and it struck back at the little hand and it let go.  The cat felt powerful then and the toddler looked curiously on at its toy as if shocked that the play thing should be hurting it but the cat did not heed.  It was angry then, and the power filtered through its blood like a virus and it struck again, and again.  The toddler was throwing its arms up in defense but the cats claws still found new skin and it stung.  Then in one more strike the cat climbed atop the toddlers lap and swiped at its cheek.  Then the man responded.  Like the toddler had done the man had now taken the tuft of the cats fur in his grip and pinched a space of flesh, and it pained the cat and the cat cried but did not strike.  Then the cat sailed through the air and landed near the closet door in the hall.  A mortified feeling sunk into the cat as it watched the man wonder at the demons wounds.  It was true the cat felt justification but now the cat was fraught with panic.

It had found a place behind the sofa.  It was not a comfortable place but it was a place that no one would think to look.  The cat had not slept there, because with the panic in its heart there was no way that it could have found time to.  Then the sofa moved and the man said in sweet tones, "here kitty kitty."  It was like the sweet lullaby of songbirds, like the second best thing to sounds of silence.  The cat had not heard such a call in such a long time that the cat felt forgiven.   The man picked it up in its arms and stroked its hair and the rumbling purrs of tranquility replaced the crippling mortification.  The cat saw the woman there hugging the toddler to her chest and the cat saw the dried cuts upon the toddlers face, and upon the toddler's arms and knew that it was a necessity to keep it safe.  The man also knew, the cat figured, because the man had talked to the cat, had entrusted it.  The cat was not savage, the man knew that when it comforted its terrified cries when the cat had longed for its mother when its was removed from its fellow species to a life with humans.  The cat felt relieved.

When the man placed the cat among the tall corn rows of a country road the cat was lost in the thoughts that only cats understand and as he walked back to the truck the  cat wanted to follow, but the engine turned and roared as though it would spit fire and the cat was reluctant to pursue.  When courage returned, the cat could not see the man's truck; only the infinite miles of road bordered by the infinite miles of nothing that only an abandoned cat could perceive.