on the other side of a locked door is a key
the key to the door that is locked from the other side
on the other side of that key is a door
a door that you are locked behind
in order to get the key you have to be the size of a flea
but the flea is not big enough to get the key off its place
no the key to getting the key with the flea is to attach a string
a string is the thing to attach to the flea, that is key for the key
and when the flea reaches key he must tie string to key for the thing
and the thing with the key tying flea is that thing must know how to tie
flea and key with string and returned to you but only if he tied the thing
all the time you sit and wonder just how in the hell you ended up
on the other side of that door you wonder about how much time you sit
and although the key is on the other side of the locked door and you can see it it is not something that will ever be gathered by you but its so much more than anything else
and in this moment there is nowhere anyone can go but its too late for the end of the earth
for the key and flea the thing on the string learning lessons
rising tensions and everything else inbetween.
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
ascending bowel movement
under a certain disguise i may have been something more than what i am,
but unfortunately whatever that may be is beyond my understanding
and here i am faltering to think of something to write because
i am tired of all the nonsense words that seem to keep
coming up out of my fingertips and mouth but
there is no one who cares to read them just
the incessant typing of my fingers on
a keyboard that is trying to scream
and yet no one is listening for
they are deaf to the noise
they are mute to me
silent and sickly
searching for
the thing
to say
now.
Why
do we
commit
our crimes
outright like
we do when the
truth can simply set
us free to get out of this
mess, but we just decided
to let death climb over us and
take its time in bringing us to old
age and there is nothing really that
we can accomplish if we are going to
be the key to the next generation. So we
go on settling into the guise that we have been
given at birth but to what end do we dress up for
this non-celebratory holiday, because I cannot see
the reason in burning down the trees just to create paper
masks to parade our ignorance with when their are people who
wood work and grind away toiled into oblivion and they do know
the way to get back home, but here we are again. Yes, here we are again.
but unfortunately whatever that may be is beyond my understanding
and here i am faltering to think of something to write because
i am tired of all the nonsense words that seem to keep
coming up out of my fingertips and mouth but
there is no one who cares to read them just
the incessant typing of my fingers on
a keyboard that is trying to scream
and yet no one is listening for
they are deaf to the noise
they are mute to me
silent and sickly
searching for
the thing
to say
now.
Why
do we
commit
our crimes
outright like
we do when the
truth can simply set
us free to get out of this
mess, but we just decided
to let death climb over us and
take its time in bringing us to old
age and there is nothing really that
we can accomplish if we are going to
be the key to the next generation. So we
go on settling into the guise that we have been
given at birth but to what end do we dress up for
this non-celebratory holiday, because I cannot see
the reason in burning down the trees just to create paper
masks to parade our ignorance with when their are people who
wood work and grind away toiled into oblivion and they do know
the way to get back home, but here we are again. Yes, here we are again.
Low Caliber - brainstorming opener.
Another B and E that's all it was. Jerry would kick in the door and Chester would follow him in and they'd pick off a few pieces of jewelry - earrings, necklaces, bracelets - and then pick up any petty cash or small electronics like - PlayStation's, DVD players. Filling their five dollar backpacks - each one carried two - with whatever would fit. And me, sitting in the car having a panic attack and cursing myself that I'm doing this again. I'm not even sure why I said yes. A part of me laughs at the notion that I'm a getaway driver, on his way to retirement - college - and that this is my last job that I've been pulled back into by my crime family - childhood friends. I'm going on the straight and narrow. I'm going to study business, economics, and make a name for myself. Not likely. I may have high hopes for my eventual entrepreneurial skills but I'm big eyed and bushy tailed enough to buy into the idea that it'll be anything more than a mom and pop shop in my hometown. That's fine. I never wanted anything bigger than that, I just didn't want to be like Jerry and Chester.
My names David. I'm sitting in the drivers seat of my parents Ford Focus sedan. It was a graduation present because I'd done so well. Tenth in my class. Not bad for a class of three hundred plus. Yet, all that potential - I suppose - and here I am. I've known Jerry and Chester since I was six. We moved into a modular home down the street from the school. It was a quiet community, not affluent, not degraded. Chester and Jerry lived on either side of me. Childhood friends, neighbor friends. Our parents couldn't have been any more different. My dad's, Frank and Theo were rather committed to their marriage and I was born to a midwife on the thirteenth of July, Dad 1 claims he was the donor, but I look more like Dad 2. The numbers are alphabetical order.
Chester's mom was a drunk. His fathers, of which there were many candidates were any one of several thousand - exaggerating - rejects that Chester's mom picked up on a Saturday night. I'm not saying his environment led to his psychopathy, but I am saying it didn't help. Chester didn't fall into that category of child development as a product of his low socioeconomic status. He was one of the resilient ones, highly intelligent - whatever that means - but 200th in our class roster. He couldn't give two shits about high school, but he was extremely calculated. He loved his mother too. He would often sneak out money from her purse just to go and supply the house with groceries, and they'd let him purchase a bottle of vodka just because they knew just who his mother was. Chester was hopelessly devoted to making his mother happy even if that meant feeding into her addiction. She'd chastise and hit him for taking the money to buy bread just as she screwed the cap off of her Absolut.
Jerry had your typical household. The nuclear family. Mom, dad, one sister, and him - the oldest. He was an idiot academically and had the notion of being a rapper - like Eminem since any respecting white boy slinging ghetto speak aspired to be. His parents hated the way Jerry talked because they knew it wasn't his natural language. He'd accuse them of racism, and they'd yell at him, and he'd go into his room and crank up Rap God and force them to listen to him sing along - he was terrible. It didn't stop their for Jerry though because he was keen on being a real "gangster."
That is where our mess happened. Jerry was fixated on stealing stuff. He was a kleptomaniac. His parents were overbearing - I only bring that up because he always used that as a bullshit excuse. He'd walk passed the teachers desk and take a stapler and slide it not to conspicuously into his hoodie pocket, and then in the hall when I'd ask him about it he'd say, "My parents are always riding my ass." He didn't keep any of the shit he took. He just dropped it in the trash can on the way out the main doors. That was in middle school. Around the sixth grade.
In school we were nowhere near each other. Not if we could help it. We had friends from classes - mine were usually girls caught up in their bisexuality and gender non-conformity who were super proud of me for loving my parents - but Jerry, Chester and I were not associated in school. I cared too much about making my parents proud, Chester didn't care about grades because his mother didn't care, and Jerry didn't care because his parents berated him constantly about why he should care. Outside of school though we were inseparable. It was mostly convenience. Living next door was easy, plus I had all the cool new gadgets and my dad Frank was an accountant who being a neighborly guy helped Jerry and Chester's parents maximize the returns on their taxes every year, and my dad Theo was a landscape architect. Dad 2 was obsessed with appearances, and when he bought the fix me up ranch house, next to the trash heaped front yard of Chester's, and the overgrown grass of Jerry's homes he saw the potential to develop his skills into beautification.
I'll admit my respect for my academics wasn't completely out of respect for my dad's. There was a fourth member of our gang - which would be a more accurate descriptor of our life by the end of the sixth grade. Her name was Emma. She lived across the school district, was salutatorian of our class, and my girlfriend. When I wasn't with Chester and Jerry I was with Emma. We started dating in tenth grade. Jerry had lost his virginity in the eight grade to Mary Lou Michaelson, but I didn't lose mine until 11th. I only say that because Jerry was obsessed with his junk. In our earliest years he'd always talk about his dick and balls, and just had an unhealthy obsession with sex before he even knew what it was. When he found out what it was - he was away - like a horse at the races. By the time I caught up with him he had already fucked six girls in our school. Though I didn't understand why, Jerry was a dick himself.
To clarify, we had a bond, but I didn't particularly like them. We had been through a lot and before I met Emma I got caught up in being a little crazy. Like I was saying before I got distracted, Jerry stole shit, all the time. He'd break into houses eventually, and pretty soon he was the dirty public secret of the neighborhood. People wouldn't let him near their houses. There was never any proof that he'd done thing so Jerry never ended up in Juvenile detention, but he ended up adopting this persona. Ghetto speak I called it, but I called it lousy imitation. It was the way racists perceived the average African American. It wasn't an homage, as much as it was a middle finger to a race. He spoke in "What up Dogs," and "catch ya later -" just insert your favorite racial epitaph here, and then his pants sagged to his knees. The joke was that we had maybe four African American students on campus, and none of them sounded like Jerry. We were in a decently affluent neighborhood. Our school had a roof and running toilets, and state of the art computer labs, which is golden compared to the conditions of the schools in the City. Jerry made up his ideal hoodlum, and sought out anyone local who was a punk and that was how come he met Tommy Reid.
Tommy Reid was a dirty rumor around town. He was the nephew of a major crime family, and he was the network connection to our little suburb. Tommy found Jerry because Jerry tried to steal from Tommy. Tommy dealt coke out of the back of his Taurus. He saw the potential of Jerrrys theievery but Jerry needed a car, and Jerry didn't have a car, but I did.
My names David. I'm sitting in the drivers seat of my parents Ford Focus sedan. It was a graduation present because I'd done so well. Tenth in my class. Not bad for a class of three hundred plus. Yet, all that potential - I suppose - and here I am. I've known Jerry and Chester since I was six. We moved into a modular home down the street from the school. It was a quiet community, not affluent, not degraded. Chester and Jerry lived on either side of me. Childhood friends, neighbor friends. Our parents couldn't have been any more different. My dad's, Frank and Theo were rather committed to their marriage and I was born to a midwife on the thirteenth of July, Dad 1 claims he was the donor, but I look more like Dad 2. The numbers are alphabetical order.
Chester's mom was a drunk. His fathers, of which there were many candidates were any one of several thousand - exaggerating - rejects that Chester's mom picked up on a Saturday night. I'm not saying his environment led to his psychopathy, but I am saying it didn't help. Chester didn't fall into that category of child development as a product of his low socioeconomic status. He was one of the resilient ones, highly intelligent - whatever that means - but 200th in our class roster. He couldn't give two shits about high school, but he was extremely calculated. He loved his mother too. He would often sneak out money from her purse just to go and supply the house with groceries, and they'd let him purchase a bottle of vodka just because they knew just who his mother was. Chester was hopelessly devoted to making his mother happy even if that meant feeding into her addiction. She'd chastise and hit him for taking the money to buy bread just as she screwed the cap off of her Absolut.
Jerry had your typical household. The nuclear family. Mom, dad, one sister, and him - the oldest. He was an idiot academically and had the notion of being a rapper - like Eminem since any respecting white boy slinging ghetto speak aspired to be. His parents hated the way Jerry talked because they knew it wasn't his natural language. He'd accuse them of racism, and they'd yell at him, and he'd go into his room and crank up Rap God and force them to listen to him sing along - he was terrible. It didn't stop their for Jerry though because he was keen on being a real "gangster."
That is where our mess happened. Jerry was fixated on stealing stuff. He was a kleptomaniac. His parents were overbearing - I only bring that up because he always used that as a bullshit excuse. He'd walk passed the teachers desk and take a stapler and slide it not to conspicuously into his hoodie pocket, and then in the hall when I'd ask him about it he'd say, "My parents are always riding my ass." He didn't keep any of the shit he took. He just dropped it in the trash can on the way out the main doors. That was in middle school. Around the sixth grade.
In school we were nowhere near each other. Not if we could help it. We had friends from classes - mine were usually girls caught up in their bisexuality and gender non-conformity who were super proud of me for loving my parents - but Jerry, Chester and I were not associated in school. I cared too much about making my parents proud, Chester didn't care about grades because his mother didn't care, and Jerry didn't care because his parents berated him constantly about why he should care. Outside of school though we were inseparable. It was mostly convenience. Living next door was easy, plus I had all the cool new gadgets and my dad Frank was an accountant who being a neighborly guy helped Jerry and Chester's parents maximize the returns on their taxes every year, and my dad Theo was a landscape architect. Dad 2 was obsessed with appearances, and when he bought the fix me up ranch house, next to the trash heaped front yard of Chester's, and the overgrown grass of Jerry's homes he saw the potential to develop his skills into beautification.
I'll admit my respect for my academics wasn't completely out of respect for my dad's. There was a fourth member of our gang - which would be a more accurate descriptor of our life by the end of the sixth grade. Her name was Emma. She lived across the school district, was salutatorian of our class, and my girlfriend. When I wasn't with Chester and Jerry I was with Emma. We started dating in tenth grade. Jerry had lost his virginity in the eight grade to Mary Lou Michaelson, but I didn't lose mine until 11th. I only say that because Jerry was obsessed with his junk. In our earliest years he'd always talk about his dick and balls, and just had an unhealthy obsession with sex before he even knew what it was. When he found out what it was - he was away - like a horse at the races. By the time I caught up with him he had already fucked six girls in our school. Though I didn't understand why, Jerry was a dick himself.
To clarify, we had a bond, but I didn't particularly like them. We had been through a lot and before I met Emma I got caught up in being a little crazy. Like I was saying before I got distracted, Jerry stole shit, all the time. He'd break into houses eventually, and pretty soon he was the dirty public secret of the neighborhood. People wouldn't let him near their houses. There was never any proof that he'd done thing so Jerry never ended up in Juvenile detention, but he ended up adopting this persona. Ghetto speak I called it, but I called it lousy imitation. It was the way racists perceived the average African American. It wasn't an homage, as much as it was a middle finger to a race. He spoke in "What up Dogs," and "catch ya later -" just insert your favorite racial epitaph here, and then his pants sagged to his knees. The joke was that we had maybe four African American students on campus, and none of them sounded like Jerry. We were in a decently affluent neighborhood. Our school had a roof and running toilets, and state of the art computer labs, which is golden compared to the conditions of the schools in the City. Jerry made up his ideal hoodlum, and sought out anyone local who was a punk and that was how come he met Tommy Reid.
Tommy Reid was a dirty rumor around town. He was the nephew of a major crime family, and he was the network connection to our little suburb. Tommy found Jerry because Jerry tried to steal from Tommy. Tommy dealt coke out of the back of his Taurus. He saw the potential of Jerrrys theievery but Jerry needed a car, and Jerry didn't have a car, but I did.
Friday, October 27, 2017
Raining Recital
It is a dreary sort of business
looking into the sky of rain
and deeming it to damn dark
to give a damn at all. In the midst
of a sudden stroke of genius
the abysmal sky demands
that you let go of the world
and take a moment to breathe
in the wet and fragile showers.
In the words of a better poet
the people pitter patter as they
chitter chatter over the pinging
and panging of a torrential
raining. This is the lullaby
of bitterness, as the sun is coated
in disguise by the cumulonimbus
formations of ugly grays
on these here damned dreary
days. What is it a man can hope
to dream when the brightness
is not even upon the earth,
because fall rain is shrouding it all
so that all is stark and drained?
Sing the rhyme in time and take
a chance that a rain dance
was committed by some nobody
on the other side of the world.
When the oil slicks on sacred lands
trip up the doctor who screams to the sky
for the earth. Here it is a botched
ceremony causing the week long
tear fall of accumulated moisture's,
and we left to cerebral tortures
as the downpour trickles out
in slow but deliberate dribbles
until building up to a chorus
of forthcoming signals. This
is the answer to the age old
question, an inquiry rife with time
wounds, and considered a perplexing
denouncement. Who is in control?
The man, the god, or the earth? Perhaps
all three, and, and is the word to throw about
for its god, and earth, and man, and we
all but strangers in our promised land
suffocated and weeping on end,
decidedly beside itself with heaping
of turmoil and bloodshed, and when
god lets his terrible voice shown down
he unleashes a gasp of sadness from
our choking mother earth, and the people
drown, and the people poison
commuting to and fro, and demanding
power to power their entertainment systems
as the sports men play sports ball
and the cartoons recite the age old
adage of the fart joke. The rain,
yes, it all comes back to the rain,
we keep it acidic and it keeps it dreary
and we keep inside all worn and weary,
our minds filtered till its nothing else,
as the dreaming comes to an end,
as the dreaming comes to an end.
looking into the sky of rain
and deeming it to damn dark
to give a damn at all. In the midst
of a sudden stroke of genius
the abysmal sky demands
that you let go of the world
and take a moment to breathe
in the wet and fragile showers.
In the words of a better poet
the people pitter patter as they
chitter chatter over the pinging
and panging of a torrential
raining. This is the lullaby
of bitterness, as the sun is coated
in disguise by the cumulonimbus
formations of ugly grays
on these here damned dreary
days. What is it a man can hope
to dream when the brightness
is not even upon the earth,
because fall rain is shrouding it all
so that all is stark and drained?
Sing the rhyme in time and take
a chance that a rain dance
was committed by some nobody
on the other side of the world.
When the oil slicks on sacred lands
trip up the doctor who screams to the sky
for the earth. Here it is a botched
ceremony causing the week long
tear fall of accumulated moisture's,
and we left to cerebral tortures
as the downpour trickles out
in slow but deliberate dribbles
until building up to a chorus
of forthcoming signals. This
is the answer to the age old
question, an inquiry rife with time
wounds, and considered a perplexing
denouncement. Who is in control?
The man, the god, or the earth? Perhaps
all three, and, and is the word to throw about
for its god, and earth, and man, and we
all but strangers in our promised land
suffocated and weeping on end,
decidedly beside itself with heaping
of turmoil and bloodshed, and when
god lets his terrible voice shown down
he unleashes a gasp of sadness from
our choking mother earth, and the people
drown, and the people poison
commuting to and fro, and demanding
power to power their entertainment systems
as the sports men play sports ball
and the cartoons recite the age old
adage of the fart joke. The rain,
yes, it all comes back to the rain,
we keep it acidic and it keeps it dreary
and we keep inside all worn and weary,
our minds filtered till its nothing else,
as the dreaming comes to an end,
as the dreaming comes to an end.
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
An Evolution of Nations
Perhaps it always was the best choice to execute the traitor
for who cares what it is the turncoat had in mind when
he decided to betray those he was entrusted to serve
was entrusted to protect. I guess the only assumption
that can be made is that he wanted something different
and it did not matter if the motivation was money,
fear, or idealogical shifts. The bottom line was wanting
a difference of focus. Be it with the gun at the back
of his head, or the allure of gold glinting in his eyes,
he strove toward that goal, and he ended up paying instead
of being paid. When they put the hang mans noose
round his neck they could not give into the hindsight,
it was an absolute truth that the execution happen as
if written innately into the fabric of the earth or in the
essence of time and space. Then it came to pass that
some of the people misconstrude his actions, and made
of him a martydom either by accidental coincidences or
by purposeful exploitation. His actions though ghastly
were not exactly immoral, though the state deemed
them a travesty of the highest degree. In the peoples defection
as their thoughts shifted, they took it upon themselves to stage
a coup and in the end moved themselves an idependent entity
strong enough to attack, and willful enough to defend. Then
as all time does, it came to pass that a new traitor was bore
with radical notions, and this new idealogy born from
the thoughtful convictions of a traitor themselves
tied the rope round the neck of the new betrayer, and let him dangle
feet frantic at the gallows. And just as though the gods
were sitting high above they shook their head, and chuckled
as the traitors young son sprouted a plan in his mind that
would evolve to a cause, a cause to a coup, and a coup to a new idealogy
so that all nations were born of the traitors blood,
and we all in turn are turncoats.
for who cares what it is the turncoat had in mind when
he decided to betray those he was entrusted to serve
was entrusted to protect. I guess the only assumption
that can be made is that he wanted something different
and it did not matter if the motivation was money,
fear, or idealogical shifts. The bottom line was wanting
a difference of focus. Be it with the gun at the back
of his head, or the allure of gold glinting in his eyes,
he strove toward that goal, and he ended up paying instead
of being paid. When they put the hang mans noose
round his neck they could not give into the hindsight,
it was an absolute truth that the execution happen as
if written innately into the fabric of the earth or in the
essence of time and space. Then it came to pass that
some of the people misconstrude his actions, and made
of him a martydom either by accidental coincidences or
by purposeful exploitation. His actions though ghastly
were not exactly immoral, though the state deemed
them a travesty of the highest degree. In the peoples defection
as their thoughts shifted, they took it upon themselves to stage
a coup and in the end moved themselves an idependent entity
strong enough to attack, and willful enough to defend. Then
as all time does, it came to pass that a new traitor was bore
with radical notions, and this new idealogy born from
the thoughtful convictions of a traitor themselves
tied the rope round the neck of the new betrayer, and let him dangle
feet frantic at the gallows. And just as though the gods
were sitting high above they shook their head, and chuckled
as the traitors young son sprouted a plan in his mind that
would evolve to a cause, a cause to a coup, and a coup to a new idealogy
so that all nations were born of the traitors blood,
and we all in turn are turncoats.
Monday, October 2, 2017
a reflection for this day
as i pulled into the parking lot on the far end of campus/ i was struck by the quaint way the museum of cars sat/ as though the world didn't exist/ all the commuters already inside/ the hidden headlights passing through the tree line in front of me/ just the quiet vehicles/ abandoned/ like the way you'd see the empty highways on one of the walking undead shows/ the music on my radio thumped out a bass tone against my leg/ the speaker present in the door/ i switched off the radio then/ turned the key to silence the buzz of my engine/ removing my phone from my pocket/ as i had observed the laws of the road/ keeping its screen backlight from averting my eyes/ my attention as i drove the twenty or so minutes to arrive here on campus/ social media pulled the tap of my finger/ drawn to it like a magnet/ a product of our time/ to keep in touch in bitter silences/ spiteful laughters/ reading up on the ups and downs of strangers once friends/ once schoolmates/ that once upon a time/ first thing to greet me/ at the top of the feed was a headline/ mass/ dead/ concert/ shooting/ vegas/ a quick google search brought me to the full story/ the usual suspect of words/ the cache of bewilderment/ avoiding the comment section i exhaled a breath for the unobserved frustrations i'd find/ an assortment of finger pointing/ instead of observing the unfiltered truth/ the perpatrator a radical of some sort/ just a man who should remain faceless/ a shadow/ who should fade away/ given no credence/ just a mist/ or a piss/ we can easily forget/ as it circled down the bowl/ into the sewage/ with the rest of the extremes/ regional concentration didn't matter/ a bastard/ made for the fires of hell/ a personal pet to lucifer/ one who should be prodded/ plucked/ double-fucked/ by the pointing end/ i tried to react/ looked to what words could be typed with my thumbs/ in what way my minor contribution to social media might be impactful/ maybe not/ though in the swirl/ storm of the political madness/ maybe a way to contribute a voice amongst the anarchy/ in order to say that madness is its own territory/ no more belongs to political parties/ idealogies than the moon belongs to a sovergnity/ all gods children/ perhaps/ though what have we become/ disappointments/ even the ones who swear highest allegiance/ misconstrude words/ the christ figure maybe dying for nothing/ if we can't even see light in our enemies/ just a digression/ this dog/ rabid/ blood-thirsty/ sorry sack of flesh/ he was someones son/ maybe/ but no more a man/ than an ant/ more a cockroach/ more a virus/ an infection/ so i will not see him/ as i do not see the flu/ he is but the gum on my shoe/ a nucance/ sitting in that car/ on campus/ letting a momentary fear ride over me/ like a deluge/ that thin tidal wave of thought/ a ectoplasmic wall/ what place is safe/ ignoring/ for what use is fear in life/ not for me/ i got out of my car and walked along/ a heavy psychology book weighing down my backpack/ about child development/ about children/ babies/ fetuses/ about life/ i get to where i need to go/ taking the quiz that i need to take/ about learning/ speaking to my mother of the barrage of news she will have to hear/ as my dad's morbid curiousity keeps him glued to the news of mass murder on tv/ a fascination/ asking why/ why/ why/ i responding who cares/ a beast/ a rageful stranger/ with a trigger finger/ a goal/ some madness/ maybe/ maybe not/ random/ perhaps/ perhaps not/ i look to correspond my answers to my quiz/ a vision of younger siblings/ little niece/ little nephew/ a vision of victims on the strip/ in night clubs/ around the world/ on trains/ humorist offices/ sure its all around/ not of everyone/ amonsgst those gone/ there are those who cared not to think/ found solace in forgetting/ of singing along to songs/ of the happy observance of their contemporaries/ dancing/ smiling/ sipping a beer/ the country singer/ strumming a guitar/ a drummer drumming/ not my type of music/ music though/ a universal truth/ perhaps the only one/ across idealogy/ across regions/ cultures/ across religions/ what is there to gain/ from this loss/ no business sense/ in this life/ not a business/ a contribution to madness/ then come the clowns/ blowhards on tv/ passing theory for wisdom/ seeing it all set out/ i open up my computer/ i want to write something down/ never able to full say what i want to say/ gotta let something out/ but what contribution are their in words/ still/ i find the address bar/ typing in the words to bring me here/i type/ as i pulled into the parking lot at the far end of campus...
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