tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88828978832210577682024-03-14T06:36:04.546-04:00THE DRINKS ARE ON THE HOUSEFrom poems, to short stories, from rants to reviews, from shit to polish, this is the un-edited thought flowing blog so drink up, and be semi-entertained.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.comBlogger405125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-56620956523155768612018-01-17T08:28:00.001-05:002018-01-17T08:28:46.653-05:00Saying GoodbyeThis will be the last posting for this site. At least officially, I will include a link to a new blog I'd like to start, that I would like to dedicate to more professionalism, and criticism. This new blog will focus on writing that is polished, and properly ridiculed, and also involve film reviews and observations of things spotted in movies that I find fascinating. Take care dear readers, whoever you were, or bots, if that is what you were, that is fine. Thanks for following me on this journey. Thank you.<br />
<br />
:)Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-27808014700899159322017-11-21T08:30:00.000-05:002017-11-21T08:30:12.172-05:00More PathsYet again we mistake our mistakes<br />
for consistency, admiring the facts<br />
in which they fall just because we<br />
cannot be bothered to fix them for<br />
the next time. In the end the people<br />
will gather 'round the old campfire<br />
and sing songs, and roast dogs, and<br />
wonder aloud about the point of it<br />
all. They will throw their hands up<br />
in defeat and say that this is how it<br />
is and that's why the way was the way<br />
it had to be, as if it is written on a stone<br />
tablet like those brought down by<br />
Moses. In the light of moons and<br />
stars the world and its neighboring<br />
cosmos will ponder the inevitability<br />
of inevitability. For what is destiny<br />
but an interstate blindly followed<br />
until the age of cataclysm when all<br />
will be brought to darkness that<br />
blinding blackness that consumes<br />
all, but we needn't follow the same<br />
path to reach the end, for the end is<br />
coming and that is the only inevitability.<br />
<br />Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-38612520128248776352017-11-16T08:24:00.002-05:002017-11-16T08:24:57.172-05:00There is No Post-ProductionDo you feel that twinge in your back<br />
the one that tells you to wake up<br />
and start your day. Don't ignore it,<br />
because it will continue to pester<br />
you until you find your way crawling<br />
on floor for breakfast. It'll slither<br />
you on through the door and self-drive<br />
your car. You will fester at work like<br />
an open soar or boil that is waiting<br />
to burst. You'll gunk up the rest<br />
of your co-workers with your gruesome<br />
bile and all the while that pestering twinge<br />
in your back begging you to wake up.<br />
You will sit silent at desk, cubicle, counter,<br />
and you will ponder the evils transgressed<br />
around you but if you do not give heed<br />
to that twinge in your back you will<br />
be left with nothing in a world full of infinite<br />
variability. If you do not pick a number<br />
that small twinge will spike and hurt you.<br />
It will beg for release, and all that bile will<br />
build back up just as it was before until<br />
like a brain vessel bursting in your brain<br />
its too late. You'll be dead and you'll have<br />
concocted a dozen or so million reasons<br />
to ignore it, or poke at it, but not accept it<br />
that twinge is the possibilities of tomorrow<br />
but if you keep on keeping on, and keep<br />
calm and carry on it will kick and stab you.<br />
It will scream out to the ire of your friends,<br />
family, lovers, acquaintences, up until, and even<br />
passed the moment of departure. It will scream<br />
aloud, "I was the real you, I was your potential,<br />
I was your inner child screaming to be set free,"<br />
so chill out, sit down, laugh, love, and experience<br />
the fun of your eager little hearts.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-17626188988615210772017-11-13T08:36:00.001-05:002017-11-13T08:36:37.994-05:00The Technician - synopsis.It's the story of a man<br />
consumed with wrath<br />
against an abandoning mother<br />
who likes to look at<br />
other peoples memories,<br />
ideas, and dreams. It's<br />
invasive despicable and<br />
he knows it. Yet he continues.<br />
He strikes keyboard keys<br />
on a daily basis, staring<br />
at heartbeat monitors<br />
and peaks at his clients<br />
minds when he gets home<br />
to his shithole apartment.<br />
A failed med student is<br />
his boss, a chatty single<br />
mother, his co-worker, and<br />
the one neighbor he has<br />
he knows only from a<br />
misplaced piece of mail.<br />
On an ordinary Monday,<br />
a new guy comes in to<br />
visualize an idea, but<br />
when our man sees this<br />
idea is to perpetuate an<br />
act of violence against<br />
the most beloved man in<br />
the world, he has to fight<br />
with something he's never<br />
had to confront before,<br />
his conscience.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-45334961471974838892017-10-31T19:38:00.001-04:002017-10-31T19:38:55.588-04:00Nonsense Words Reduxon the other side of a locked door is a key<br />
the key to the door that is locked from the other side<br />
on the other side of that key is a door<br />
a door that you are locked behind<br />
in order to get the key you have to be the size of a flea<br />
but the flea is not big enough to get the key off its place<br />
no the key to getting the key with the flea is to attach a string<br />
a string is the thing to attach to the flea, that is key for the key<br />
and when the flea reaches key he must tie string to key for the thing<br />
and the thing with the key tying flea is that thing must know how to tie<br />
flea and key with string and returned to you but only if he tied the thing<br />
all the time you sit and wonder just how in the hell you ended up<br />
on the other side of that door you wonder about how much time you sit<br />
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<br />
and in this moment there is nowhere anyone can go but its too late for the end of the earth<br />
for the key and flea the thing on the string learning lessons<br />
rising tensions and everything else inbetween.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-50079426044620652612017-10-31T17:56:00.001-04:002017-10-31T17:56:38.622-04:00ascending bowel movementunder a certain disguise i may have been something more than what i am,<br />
but unfortunately whatever that may be is beyond my understanding<br />
and here i am faltering to think of something to write because<br />
i am tired of all the nonsense words that seem to keep<br />
coming up out of my fingertips and mouth but<br />
there is no one who cares to read them just<br />
the incessant typing of my fingers on<br />
a keyboard that is trying to scream<br />
and yet no one is listening for<br />
they are deaf to the noise<br />
they are mute to me<br />
silent and sickly<br />
searching for<br />
the thing<br />
to say<br />
now.<br />
Why<br />
do we<br />
commit<br />
our crimes<br />
outright like<br />
we do when the<br />
truth can simply set<br />
us free to get out of this<br />
mess, but we just decided<br />
to let death climb over us and<br />
take its time in bringing us to old<br />
age and there is nothing really that<br />
we can accomplish if we are going to<br />
be the key to the next generation. So we<br />
go on settling into the guise that we have been<br />
given at birth but to what end do we dress up for<br />
this non-celebratory holiday, because I cannot see<br />
the reason in burning down the trees just to create paper<br />
masks to parade our ignorance with when their are people who<br />
wood work and grind away toiled into oblivion and they do know<br />
the way to get back home, but here we are again. Yes, here we are again.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-40659709797331548062017-10-31T16:58:00.000-04:002017-10-31T16:58:03.911-04:00Low 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-77200470740217986762017-10-27T09:33:00.000-04:002017-10-27T09:33:08.798-04:00Raining RecitalIt is a dreary sort of business<br />
looking into the sky of rain<br />
and deeming it to damn dark<br />
to give a damn at all. In the midst<br />
of a sudden stroke of genius<br />
the abysmal sky demands<br />
that you let go of the world<br />
and take a moment to breathe<br />
in the wet and fragile showers.<br />
In the words of a better poet<br />
the people pitter patter as they<br />
chitter chatter over the pinging<br />
and panging of a torrential<br />
raining. This is the lullaby<br />
of bitterness, as the sun is coated<br />
in disguise by the cumulonimbus<br />
formations of ugly grays<br />
on these here damned dreary<br />
days. What is it a man can hope<br />
to dream when the brightness<br />
is not even upon the earth,<br />
because fall rain is shrouding it all<br />
so that all is stark and drained?<br />
Sing the rhyme in time and take<br />
a chance that a rain dance<br />
was committed by some nobody<br />
on the other side of the world. <br />
When the oil slicks on sacred lands<br />
trip up the doctor who screams to the sky<br />
for the earth. Here it is a botched<br />
ceremony causing the week long<br />
tear fall of accumulated moisture's,<br />
and we left to cerebral tortures<br />
as the downpour trickles out<br />
in slow but deliberate dribbles<br />
until building up to a chorus<br />
of forthcoming signals. This<br />
is the answer to the age old<br />
question, an inquiry rife with time<br />
wounds, and considered a perplexing<br />
denouncement. Who is in control?<br />
The man, the god, or the earth? Perhaps<br />
all three, and, and is the word to throw about<br />
for its god, and earth, and man, and we<br />
all but strangers in our promised land<br />
suffocated and weeping on end,<br />
decidedly beside itself with heaping<br />
of turmoil and bloodshed, and when<br />
god lets his terrible voice shown down<br />
he unleashes a gasp of sadness from<br />
our choking mother earth, and the people<br />
drown, and the people poison<br />
commuting to and fro, and demanding<br />
power to power their entertainment systems<br />
as the sports men play sports ball<br />
and the cartoons recite the age old<br />
adage of the fart joke. The rain,<br />
yes, it all comes back to the rain,<br />
we keep it acidic and it keeps it dreary<br />
and we keep inside all worn and weary,<br />
our minds filtered till its nothing else,<br />
as the dreaming comes to an end,<br />
as the dreaming comes to an end.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-56535398824361361252017-10-03T08:18:00.001-04:002017-10-03T08:18:45.669-04:00An Evolution of NationsPerhaps it always was the best choice to execute the traitor<br />
for who cares what it is the turncoat had in mind when<br />
he decided to betray those he was entrusted to serve<br />
was entrusted to protect. I guess the only assumption<br />
that can be made is that he wanted something different<br />
and it did not matter if the motivation was money,<br />
fear, or idealogical shifts. The bottom line was wanting<br />
a difference of focus. Be it with the gun at the back<br />
of his head, or the allure of gold glinting in his eyes,<br />
he strove toward that goal, and he ended up paying instead<br />
of being paid. When they put the hang mans noose<br />
round his neck they could not give into the hindsight,<br />
it was an absolute truth that the execution happen as<br />
if written innately into the fabric of the earth or in the<br />
essence of time and space. Then it came to pass that<br />
some of the people misconstrude his actions, and made<br />
of him a martydom either by accidental coincidences or<br />
by purposeful exploitation. His actions though ghastly<br />
were not exactly immoral, though the state deemed<br />
them a travesty of the highest degree. In the peoples defection<br />
as their thoughts shifted, they took it upon themselves to stage<br />
a coup and in the end moved themselves an idependent entity<br />
strong enough to attack, and willful enough to defend. Then<br />
as all time does, it came to pass that a new traitor was bore<br />
with radical notions, and this new idealogy born from<br />
the thoughtful convictions of a traitor themselves<br />
tied the rope round the neck of the new betrayer, and let him dangle<br />
feet frantic at the gallows. And just as though the gods<br />
were sitting high above they shook their head, and chuckled<br />
as the traitors young son sprouted a plan in his mind that<br />
would evolve to a cause, a cause to a coup, and a coup to a new idealogy<br />
so that all nations were born of the traitors blood,<br />
and we all in turn are turncoats.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-47605886396418396222017-10-02T09:11:00.001-04:002017-10-02T09:20:51.531-04:00a reflection for this dayas 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...Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-52363886662626174232017-09-19T11:39:00.001-04:002017-09-19T11:39:09.793-04:00Societal TonesWithheld from the edge of knowing,<br />
as though knowing were a disease,<br />
as if showing the world that you learn is<br />
a cause for a cataclysm of concern.<br />
Withhold truths so that the liars cannot manipulate<br />
that which it is they know but refuse to<br />
acknowledge it so that they can persist<br />
in their down grading attitudes in order<br />
to perpetuate the myth of their own legends.<br />
<br />
What do they do if they gather up the knowing<br />
and parade it down the square so that passerby's<br />
unwield their eyes, and hope to know what it is they can't,<br />
but the uninitiated will clamor against the wall,<br />
and deem the knowing as a form of class warfare<br />
that no one will survive. and in the midst of their<br />
cascading tears they will dismiss the truths and the lies,<br />
and little in a world of perpetual agony, because they refuse<br />
to take a side. <br />
<br />
It is here at the middle where the outside grips at the wrists<br />
and tugs and pulls and shreds the skin so that it peels apart like<br />
a plastic bag. No satisfying tearing sound only symphonic terror<br />
that belts from the masses like the final rattle of a bleeting sheep<br />
to old and fragile to be any use in sheering so sent off to slaughter<br />
for being itself. Raped by the blade and bleeding on the countertops<br />
where its only a mutton of its former self.<br />
<br />
On the other side, as in that plain of existence so ethereal God looks down,<br />
he is shaking his head, hand over eyes, ashamed that his tree bore fruit that<br />
no one cared to ingest. Oh, they bit into the knowledge but they never broke it down,<br />
and digested, and he had given them all they needed, but they saw that higher knowledge<br />
as an affront to their faith, but no one stopped to wonder how it could be so when he gave us<br />
that tree to bleed on.<br />
<br />
So like the serpent in that oft forgotten garden the liars will slither around, and cast<br />
the doubt in the middle of the pen where the sheep will be frantic and tip toe<br />
out of fear of being bitten and poisoned to death. the outside ones, all nose in the air, will take their knowledge<br />
and they will horde it, for they superior in degree, with degrees will never hand over<br />
the key to their city, and it'll be a pious little oversight to witness the birth of ignorance<br />
not from the liars, or the sheep but from the sheer audacity of the wise, to never sprinkling it down<br />
properly amongst the lambs.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-76834084387588952792017-09-07T11:32:00.000-04:002017-09-07T11:32:39.885-04:00Boils and Sores - a short story Rachel removed her revolver from her holster and stood atop the ridge in a stance of particular disdain. On the other side of the valley she could see the encroaching riders in a scattered line, kicking up dust as the neared. She raised her arm and steadied a bead at the head of one of the incoming men, and prepared herself to shoot. When she pulled the trigger the gun clicked with an unsatisfying ping and there was no expulsion of any projectile. Save for the bullet in her head. She readied the weapon back on her hip and made her way back up to her homestead and settled at her place at the table knitting the blanket she'd been neglecting for those last few moments of make believe.<br />
<br />
Outside the sounds of the horses galloped into a steadily declining clop-clop until it was nothing but the sound of a rider heavy with fatigue landing upon the heavy earth. There were three such sounds, each one bigger than the last, and Rachel kept her eyes on the knitted blanket as the heels of their boots clamored upon the wooden porch. Then the door flung open in a bout of violence, and she smiled at her visitors. <br />
<br />
"Go'dam Rachel, you ain't got no fire for the kettle. You knows I like to have my tea, I'm parched." The man with a rather large moustache smacked his lips a little bit to emphasize their dryness, and licked at his lips. Behind him entered two other fellows, one a tall scrawny man the other giant in both height and width, he being barely contained in his trousers. The mustachioed man appeared agitated at Rachel's non-response and so he sat himself at the table and removed his buckled hat, placing in front of him. As he folded his hands, with elbows secure on the table he spoke, "Why don'tcha got no tea whisslin on the kettle Rachel?"<br />
<br />
Her attention cast upon her work she muttered, "Didn't right feel like it Howard. Don't feel like you woulda done felt like it either on account of how hot this here house has gotten. Mine as well be in the fires of hell. That's the truth." She chuckled at herself.<br />
<br />
Howard looked back at his companions who shrugged at him as if to say they didn't know what to make of such backward talk. As if to say they didn't want to take no chances in chuckling or correcting the wife of their friend and employer.<br />
<br />
"Rachel?" Howard said as if to a child.<br />
<br />
"Yes Howard?" Rachel said as if to a ghost.<br />
<br />
"Could you make us some tea, deary."<br />
<br />
"I don't think I will." She responded.<br />
<br />
Howard chuckled and once again cast his eyes up towards his compatriots. The fatter one chuckled, and shrugged, "Women. Even my Peggy done say the darndest things when shes left alone and all." He relinquished the volume of his chuckle until it trailed and faded away into an almost whimper.<br />
<br />
"Rachel?"<br />
<br />
"Yes Howard?"<br />
<br />
"Why won't you make tea for me and my friends. We be riding for days on end, our water run dry, our bones be weary. Just a kettle of tea. Please, deary." His manner of manners was less polite and more demanding, he spit upon his floor and shot but a short glance to his partners, and returned and waited for a response from his dear young wife.<br />
<br />
"No I won't. There's kindling in stove, there's flint near by, and you got two hands to use, and eyes to see, your legs though weary can carry you 'cross the room. With a scratch and a blow you can start your own fire goin'. Easy. Deary." It almost appeared her attention was far more absorbed in her work, even letting out a smile, and what sounded like a pleasurable giggle at her neared success.<br />
<br />
The lanky boy with the great stature and shifty eyes chuckled slightly, and Howard cast his eyes up to him, "What's funny boy?"<br />
<br />
The boy swallowed a lump of nerves down his throat, and remarked, "She's got a wit. Wit is peculiar, my fiance back home had wit, and her ma and pa had to lock her up in asylum. Give her a good lesson in being human, good lesson in knowing her place. She come out more ladylike, more quiet, I just think she got wit is all, its just peculiar is all, strange."<br />
<br />
"Wit. Right." Howard spit at the boys feet, and once again turned to his wife who was picking at a stray piece of string protruding from her blanket.<br />
<br />
"Rachel?"<br />
<br />
"Yes Howard?"<br />
<br />
"Make me some tea. I'm weary, and sore, and now in more ways than one."<br />
<br />
"I won't make no tea, I'm busy."<br />
<br />
"You'll put down that useless mass or else I'll make you put it down. We done been through this already."<br />
<br />
Rachel's eyes shot up and she scolded him, and said in the calmest tone she could muster, "You touch my knittin' and I'll prod you in your fucking eye, pluck it and gouge it out then who will follow you, just a blind man riding."<br />
<br />
Howard needed little less provocation and he reached across the table and with a violent hold he grasped the blanket and true to her word Rachel freed up her hand and tool, and used it as a rod to pluck out her husband's eye. But, not to its complete freedom. It dangled and dabbed against his coarse cheek and he exclaimed a line of expletive expulsions as he stood and backed up knocking over his dining chair. He held a palm over the eye and moved it up to try and adjust it back into its socket, but it slipped and fell from his fingertips until his maneuvering loosened it so that it fell freely down his chest to the bottom of his frantic boot. And then, squish.<br />
<br />
"Seven hells Rachel, seven hells." He was exasperated in his panic, and breathed in a spent heave. "I'll kill you for that." He looked at her properly then with that one attached eye and saw her with her revolver drawn and focused on his compatriots who had been attempting to draw their own weapons.<br />
<br />
"I'm gonna give you an order or two Howard, an order or two. But I ain't gonna be you, I ain't gonna use a fist or two. I ain't gonna make you bleed, but I'm gonna give an order or two." There was a quake in her voice but her hand was steady on her trigger, and her eyes focused, and trained on the lanky and pronounced giants. Howard knew she could shoot. He'd trained her, helped her, back when they were both younger, and foolish. Back when he was kinder, and she was less wistful.<br />
<br />
"You boys are gonna put your pieces on the table now. Just right here, right next to me. Right here, in front of me."<br />
<br />
"You shoot one of us honey, the others will just drop you dead."<br />
<br />
She turned her pistol on Howard, "Not if I shoot you dead, you're boys are dumb and dumbest, ain't got no two wits in them aside from what you show them they have. I kill you they die anyway, useless as they both is."<br />
<br />
The two men, giants as though they may have been looked at one another and at their boss and reached a consensus with their eyes that what she said was true. They made ready to remove their weapons from their places. "What's gonna stop her from shooting us all dead then," Howard tried to reason. The men haltered their unholstering, and examined Rachel for a new confirmation.<br />
<br />
"I just need y'all to let me leave her. I just need your horses, but if you trigger I trigger you and you and you. Do you get my meaning by trigger?"<br />
<br />
The men nodded like infants. And placed their revolvers on the table. Then they slowly backed away as though that might impact the painful quality of a gunshot. <br />
<br />
Rachel smiled at Howard. "Now you deary. Won't you deary? Its on your left hip i'case you don't see it."<br />
<br />
There was a thin layer of blood enveloping around Howard's fingers that covered over his socket, and a constant grimace of pain on his face, but there was also some level of admiration that his dear little Rachel wasn't so dear. Fist to cheek, fist to stomach, fist across neck, and she'd never showed signs she'd been this strong, this fiercely animalistic, and he felt a twinge in his loins, and a thump in his heart, and he wanted her more, wanted her to attack him with all that ferocity but he'd make her bleed first, punish her first, take out both eyes for his one, and then mount her and take her as he would. She had to know her place, had to find it amongst his submission, but damned if he didn't love her more than ever.<br />
<br />
He lifted out his revolver and dropped it at his feet. He smiled, "Get along bitch, ride as long as you can." He raised his hands in the air, his momentary surrender. Then she pulled her trigger.<br />
<br />
Click. Empty. And she smiled. And he moved on her, but she lifted up the fat man's shotgun and blew a hole through her husband so that his chest was a hollowed splatter of a former heart. She shifted the gun on his mates, and she said, "Go on now, and be good to your wives."<br />
<br />
They turned tail and ran without another second thought, if they even had had a first there was very little time to get it passed instinct. They moved out the door and the horses soon followed into a faded gallop away from the foundations of that house.<br />
<br />
Rachel removed her revolver from the pile on the table, and dropped the shotgun there. She holstered her piece, and returned to her blanket. A stray piece of thread protruded from the top and she held it in delicate palms and plucked at the thread till it loosed. She turned it over in front of her and was satisfied with her work. The smell of blood hung thick in that room as she laid the blanket in an empty bassinet.<br />
<br />
<br />Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-30939080208887452152017-08-29T10:24:00.000-04:002017-08-29T10:24:10.319-04:00Powers of Our PerceptionsRemembering how the rose wilted was one of the most painful experiences of my life and all the thought that went into contemplating that complexity has led me to lead a life of solitude,<br />
For what can bring one back from the edges of that despair, and what chance does a soul have to reenter a body it has left when it is bereft with such traumatic sadness,<br />
As the garden faded into natures dust, and the sands of time blew over everything I was an unfeeling mass of ectoplasm hovering over my own grievances,<br />
I could not feel the kiss of the wind nor the caress of blasting sands but only the tender nothingness of floating as an ethereal presence only staring at the earth as an observer through a screen,<br />
In the midst of that pitiful reaction I settled down amongst the ground only to find that I missed that level of viewing and the sight from a top was frightful and distracting,<br />
I could not see those woods for those trees and all the bleakness and the missing bees of that season were there attracted to the simplest life boat - a sore little flower determined to grow,<br />
Remembering the spring time I felt a tingle of response over the jellyfish membranes of my afterlife go and remove itself from that place and I was warm to the pecks of sand that comforted me in the winds,<br />
On the other side of my remorse and my pity was a budding world where stinging insects dissected the milk of the flowers to create their colonies and it was beautiful and soon by judgements all my own, I willed myself back to my body,<br />
Though it had been buried under the sand trap of time I dug my way out cherishing every shouldered vertical push until the beams of the welcomed sun seemed to lift me up to my feet,<br />
And through my eyes - for they were the same eyes - I saw that the rose pedals had never wilted it was I,<br />
I who had perceived them so.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-50017303820567603062017-08-07T17:45:00.000-04:002017-08-07T17:45:18.610-04:00A Cleansing.The young boy ran among the muck and decided to drown his hamster there. The beating rain that rattled against the moist earth let out a funeral snare so that the entire world surrounding that place could understand the horror that was being accused. Much to the boys surprise the hamster did not flail or fight back, it twitched, and then accepted itself to the afterlife. In this way it seemed mother nature took pity on the small creature, deeming its demise a liberating act to the atrocities of the sick child.<br />
<br />
The boy named Trent dipped his booted feet into sinking soils and found his way home covered in the grime of the world, the lifeless brown muddled mass of mud in one fist. His face beemed a satisfied smile but the beating of the rain drops told a story akin to disapproval. Somewhere up above the people would have surmised that the Lord was troubled by the acts of his creation for after all he knew every hair on his head but he did not gather all the thoughts within.<br />
<br />
At home young Trent buried his poor pet hamster in the sewers, flushing it down the toilet bowl where its coat of mud had broken away in a mist amongst the blue hue of the toilet water and circled its light brown mass through the funnel of draining water. His eyes followed it as it vanished, and when he could not see it it was out of mind, and he wiped his filthy hands on the sides of his khaki shorts. He exited the bathroom with a calm sigh of relief and went to the kitchen to join his family for dinner.<br />
<br />
His mother looked aghast at him standing before the dinner table all covered in natures grime, she observed the hand prints upon his shorts, and the mop of hair that fell against his forehead having been forced that way by the driving rains but now was in that delicate and disgusting area of disrepair but unable to fix itself. She chastised him and he huffed at her and scowled his unsettling scowl, and she dropped the point. Now that her exasperation was mooted she returned to eating, and he too began to eat. He rudely reached across the table passing his disgusting hands into the buttermilk biscuits leaving his mark on many of them.<br />
<br />
"Son of a bitch." His father exclaimed just after the door slammed shut near the front of the house. "Who tracked mud all over the carpet?" The boy called Trent sat silently eating his biscuits, and he did not react. Not out of fear, but out of pure bliss of knowing that he was safe from reprucussion. The father moved into the kitchen and saw the muddy child, and he swallowed the swell of anger that was growing inside of his throat. His face reddened with rage returned some of its natural color and he moved to his location at the head of the table. The father reached across the table and retrieved and dirty biscuit, and he stared at it and then at his wife, and young Trent bit into his own. The father bit into his, mud and all.<br />
<br />
Later that night when Trent himself had felt that he had been dirty enough he walked into the shower and washed off all his mud. He did not notice the clogged toilet bowl rising water over the rim that splashed all over the linoleoum floor. And his feet heavy with lathered soap slipped against the floor and he was suspended ethereal in the light of the singular ceiling bulb. The collision with his head against the edge of the bathtub was subtle but cracked enough that he was instantly lost to the human world.<br />
<br />
When the body was discovered the parents of the little boy Trent decidedly quickly to cremate him. It wasn't for any other reason that to ensure that the flames perfectly consumed him and when they brought his ashes home they emptied them into the clean toilet not knowing that they were uniting him with his dearly departed hamster.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-52394675879283191212017-08-02T17:59:00.002-04:002017-08-02T17:59:57.561-04:00Cycling<b><i>There was a decidely dark day in the middle of a measely may rain when little children sparked the spirit of disinterest in the hearts of adolescents adorning the aged halls of a secondary school,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>They fawned over the height of intelligence that the towering teens demoted and graveled at their feet with questions as wisful and precarious as the precious poetry of children's vocabulary,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The older children commended the appetite but did not feed the mouths of the babes for they were too preoccupied with racing minds of sexual desires and motus apprendi of self esteem assaults,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>They were told to look with lidless eyes into the abyss of future times so that the horrifying detrimental faces were all the little kids could hope to abide for that is what they saw in their saintly little eyes,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Afeared they were of growing old that the children read up on Peter Pans and Wonderlands, craving to crawl through cavernous holes to follow the white rabbit towards a better goal,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>But after all of that the adults still drove them towards the end of the earth where seniors in schools stood on the brink of an amazing abyss and shout to them to grow up and be damned,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>And the people on the other side of the monsters eyes, who are imprisoned and watch with tearful blinds, continue dribbling out the sadness sanctioned on them by those who pushed them over the cliff side,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>There was a decidely dark day in the middle of a measely may rain when little children sparked the spirit of disinterest in the hearts of adolesencts adorning the aged halls of a secondary school.</i></b>Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-36923486459240306152017-07-12T18:00:00.000-04:002017-07-12T18:00:20.186-04:00Preying on the Future.Yearly a young sapling emerges into warms and is systematically cut down in order to give way to the holidays,<br />
A little speck of inspiration that itself inspired to grow extremely tall at one point in its life but cannot now for abomination of selling spirit.<br />
Can you truly underestimate the idealogy of the masses though, who see upon this young tree and epitome of jolly tidings,<br />
it should be their perrogative to value its budding growth in whatever way they want, so that when they cut it down<br />
they believe it should find solace in bringing them a greenish warmth of its forever green dying leaves.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-49814540417158887702017-07-10T17:56:00.000-04:002017-07-10T17:56:28.166-04:00Developmental HellionOn the edge of the last street out of town stands a child prone to crying<br />
out in little fits of anguish and despair.<br />
His mother, or father, brothers, sisters, aunts or uncles, not even distrusted<br />
cousins cannot be notified that the child is turning in circles and pulling<br />
the hair out of his head. When you go to console the child you cannot<br />
fully understand his pains because he is not from your block<br />
he is far off on the other side of the spectrum of your distrust<br />
and because of this he cannot awaken inside to your stranger gaze<br />
because he does not trust the person you are. The morality<br />
and well wishing you want to spout off and despite all the assurances<br />
of your insurance in goodness he will still scream for his parents<br />
even if they have in their hearts the moral bankruptcy associated<br />
with wolves in sheeps clothing. It is in this moment<br />
that we take offense we storm off and brandish our defenses<br />
like swords and instead of our protections<br />
they are now weapons that penetrate the blood lines of people<br />
who do not understand. Deceptive we are to our own selves<br />
that we hold onto these whining attritions even tighter, even as our family<br />
and our friends tell us we are irrational. To be right is better than to be wrong,<br />
especially if you are wrong. Still, the child screams, and you have now<br />
reassured him that you are the wolf, blatant and scary as he knew<br />
you would be. Welcome to your moral bankruptcy because you didn't<br />
care to understand. That is the ultimate defeat of your personality<br />
because you let the distraught be the cause of your pains even though<br />
they did nothing to hurt you but to diminish your feelings of self-glory<br />
by giving momentary comfort. On this street on the way out of town<br />
the child stands, anguished because he does not know what it is that bothers<br />
him, and because he is innocent to his own answer to his discourse<br />
because his development is little, we provide the fears to him that<br />
he is wrong, and we introduce ourselves as the spawns of satan,<br />
and we have already started to corrupt his youth, and in turn<br />
corrupt his spirit.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-18909798594256843482017-06-20T20:22:00.001-04:002017-06-20T20:24:40.623-04:00The Meaning<i>Took long enough to understand the nature of the human condition</i><br />
<i>but it was much easier to forget. No matter how many times the truth</i><br />
<i>is spoken the people are often sticking ice picks in their ears to dull</i><br />
<i>the sense of understanding. In the charisma of the snake charmers</i><br />
<i>men are lulled into complacency till the venom is surging through</i><br />
<i>all veins, and the heart is pumping nothing but poison because they</i><br />
<i>could not be bothered to pay attention to the dangers. In times of strife</i><br />
<i>pickled pigs feet are being eatin as substitutes for bananas and cream</i><br />
<i>cheese bagels because what does it matter what one consumes if one</i><br />
<i>is already dull to beauty. In that wishy washy way they will say give</i><br />
<i>unto the world your best achievements but we will hoard them in the back</i><br />
<i>of the bus because we could not deem them perfect enough to be given</i><br />
<i>unto the rudimentary masses that followed us. All the days that go on</i><br />
<i>with the sun burning high in the sky out there in the outer spaces</i><br />
<i>the men on the dark side of the moon who toil away at the cratered impact</i><br />
<i>blemishes searching for answers when life is being sent in cosmic rays</i><br />
<i>against the magnetic poles of our mother earth; it is not their fault</i><br />
<i>for forgetting for we tend to make men work with kinked necks and troubled</i><br />
<i>backs so that they can never look up. Tell them again what you know</i><br />
<i>on social media, and let the like button be executed a thousand times</i><br />
<i>so that its death is many and just as the man who passes in the night</i><br />
<i>it will have no true consequence to the end game. So eat your canned</i><br />
<i>ham, chicken and tuna and commit yourself to the absurd ordeals</i><br />
<i>of domesticated life, with ears bent and tail wagging in submissive</i><br />
<i>delight to the twirl of the auto-correct button on your IPhone 2000.</i><br />
<i>Took long enough to write nothing of consequence and redundant</i><br />
<i>in its absences of any real weight. The people will look at what you</i><br />
<i>have said and scratch at the crusted sleepiness that sits dimly in </i><br />
<i>the corners of their eyes and they will wonder why you waste minutes</i><br />
<i>of your time typing up impossible tasks. For who can expose the truth</i><br />
<i>if they are unwilling to expose themselves to any real ridicule or lofty</i><br />
<i>ambitions. Sit down and think it over, since you will never be this</i><br />
<i>young again.</i>Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-83766093839195887762017-06-19T11:06:00.001-04:002017-06-19T11:10:18.947-04:00Game Called CirclePreliminary evaluations suggest we should check our speed<br />
because moving to quickly in reverse at our current trajectory<br />
is grounds for chastising. When the little old ladies with wrinkled<br />
faces and sweaty palms prone to speeding while under the influence<br />
of anti-psychotics witness our insane bouts of banana driving<br />
they will be implemented into your plot and proceed to push the pedal<br />
to the metal. The race will be on but the clock will be in reverse<br />
and the smell of nursing homes will emit out of the exhaust pipe<br />
of her Lincoln town car. The sort of automobile reserved for the gods<br />
of Egypt, that is too say ancient and falling to pieces because a bucket<br />
of bolts is always set to overflow as the pavement is littered with potholes<br />
and the wheels are sinking in. There are no winners but there are also<br />
no losers because everyone is falling behind, and continuing toward a point<br />
in the beginning that they were always continuing toward. The crowd<br />
scratching its head in joined bewilderment will begin to file out with their<br />
disappointed fountain sodas, and half eatin ball park franks. While we discuss the future and continue bouncing about and spilling our guts about the world we live in<br />
and our geriatric rivals watching us through competitive eyes parallel to our ride.<br />
<br />
Ignoring the evaluations we are caught up in the conversation, and that<br />
is when the lightning storm arrives. Just in time the lightning flashes,<br />
so we hit the brakes on the edge of the Atlantic, but the denture wearing<br />
NASCAR grandmas don't know how to counteract so that their boat sized<br />
Lincoln town cars fly off the docks and cliffs and splash down in ocean time.<br />
Those crafty broads are safe and sound ejecting from sun roofs and pulling<br />
parachute cords so that they float down like brittle flowers into the roar of a raging<br />
sea. We are there proud to be the leaders of the race, and crafting smiles as we laugh<br />
at our shared interests. The past generation has no hope to proceed passed the finish line,<br />
and they were watching us for tricks but now they float in the ocean waiting for pick up. <br />
No competition when it sabotaged itself, and though we are so far behind<br />
we are now in the lead, and recover just fine. Negative numbers dwindle to zero and we go on through to the finish and do laps around our words, and ignoring the catastrophe around<br />
us we are set to come out on top. I make a sign of the cross and you feel my cheek with a cold<br />
palm, and when the kiss occurs I know it always was set to occur, and we<br />
drink our victory champagne and we dance the night away while the coast guard gives<br />
the little old ladies blankets and hot coffee because they are shaking and shivering off<br />
the water in minute little droplets. <br />
<br />Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-75294665653801992172017-06-14T10:20:00.000-04:002017-06-14T10:20:36.557-04:00Bullshit StuffEven in the most intimate sort of settings music appears to play a certain part in igniting thought and discussion, or maybe it just instruments the discourse one must feel to fall in and out of a particular emotion.<br />
A calamity can cure cancer but only in the end game because shuffling around the board is not enough to warrant an inclusion into scientific studies because what can one hope to see if one is constantly poking out his eyes.<br />
Sewing is great if you have a thread but if you do not procure the needle then you are left twisting the vine with no way to penetrate for the creation of any sort of hocus pocus, and thus creationism is left to creators who no know how to use the pointed end.<br />
The last time the world stop spinning was when it was first created, an orb on the other side of the great ravine where no one really go to put it down again because no one wanted to pick it up so it was just a useless little marble that god decided to build, like a shaped cats eye and stealies are not the sort of action that gets to happen.<br />
On the way to the market you can forget to buy the bread as long as you've picked up the milk because while peanut butter sandwhiches are all fine and dandy you can spoon feed the butter into your mouth but you need to wash it down with a larger glass of milk.<br />
Thus my class begins and I'll speak in foreign tongues and not understand half of what is said but I will grasp some sort of concept for that is the purpose of learning, and then it spill out one ear and into another and I fear I am doomed to repeat for never gaining credit is my game to lose.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-8770167726116238292017-06-13T12:33:00.002-04:002017-06-13T14:35:55.967-04:00An Urgency Inherit to Children - short storySamuel took a step forward after he had stopped his bike on the neighborhood path. He straddled the foundation of his bicycle and gripped the handle bars as he scooted his feet along the pavement. His fist were tight and his eyes glued forward where his feet were bringing him. He'd never seen a dead person before and now there was one laying out across the path obstructing most of the way. Had he been younger than he was, or older he may have reacted differently but he looked on then with a genuine albeit morbid curiosity. It was unmistakable that there was no life within the corpse of the man, he was pale and stiff eyes faded into gray clouds of mist. Samuel lifted a leg over his bike and let it fall to his opposite side just as he neared the man's mess of floating hair. It had been picked up in the breeze a gray yellow lifted and dropped all at once so that it appeared to levitate.<br />
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He squatted in front of the man and cocked his neck to crane a look at his expressionless gaze. It could not have been painful whatever it was that befell him, there was a serenity to it. A look that said he had been content with his moments up until then, and Samuel thought on that old expression of life passing before a persons eyes before they had breathed their last breath. At the angle Samuel peered the man's face appeared upside down, the ever changing shadows of the floating hairs on his forehead. Samuel stood back up, and looked from one end of the bike path to the other, and saw no signs of passerby. It was early morning then, the sun making its progression to its highest point in the sky but not quite there. Then as if become with shock Samuel hurried back to his bike and rode back toward his house.</div>
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The trees whipped passed him as he pushed one foot on each pedal with a harsh and determined move of his leg. His knees rose in bends, and straightened at speeds he hadn't fathomed he could reach. The ending of the path seemed so far then, so completely foreign to him that he might as well have been traversing some foreign desert or navigating the amazon without a guide. He knew though that home was forward, and that the body was behind him. The middle aged man staring at the storm encroaching upon his iris'. </div>
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Then an end. Samuel slowed himself a little as he approached the street, the wisp of cars sneaking away in front of him, their bodies existing for a minute amount of time as if to say they hadn't existed at all and growing in size from matchbox size to their rhinoceros width bodies. The stop sign to expanding its red hexagon body and white lettering: STOP. Samuel obeyed and realized he had been sweating immensely all over his t-shirt. He wiped it away at the top of his forehead along his hair line, the back of his hand glistening with the run off like grease in the sunlight. His breathing was labored, and he coughed from a pain of sharpness in his throat. The whipping cars continued on by and he waited but felt the tendril hands of some monster encroaching upon his shoulder. The man dead and forgotten on the pavement some mile or two behind him. The cars kept going. They didn't see him, they didn't acknowledge him all of those commuters on their way to work, and school. On their ways to responsibilities and errands. On their way to relaxations.</div>
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Then a lull, a moment of peace upon the street. Samuel prepped himself and peddled across throwing his look to left and right over and over the entire way just in case some magical truck emerged to destroy him. And as he pushed on forward he felt the talons on his neck lose grip and lose ground. And then he was home.</div>
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He dropped his bike in the yard and it clattered as its chain slapped against its metal bars. He'd leapt from it and stumbled through the grass almost falling, and out of breath but he ran for the door and opened and slammed it behind him. His bike alone in the grass obscured and forgotten. Passed the kitchen and passed the living room he ran down the corridor to his parents bed side and he shook his mother awake. She groaned and chastised him for the interruption to her dreaming, and he lamented, "There's a dad man on the bike path. Really dead." His breath was caught in the roof of his mouth and the sweat dripped off from his forehead. But she tossed in her bed and moved her face away from his. His father too hushed him, and Samuel gave up and returned to his room deciding that he'd be better to wake up twice to forget the whole affair as in dreams.</div>
Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-17316811026262457992017-06-13T10:26:00.000-04:002017-06-13T14:37:20.031-04:00In a Perfect WorldMaybe I'm silly for thinking so but your smile tells me otherwise<br />
because of the way you own it and determine to yourself that<br />
you will smile through the awkward pains. It isn't so strange to admit<br />
that you are something of an enigma, and when your cheeks dimple<br />
I can't help but sigh in side as my heart fans itself from too much admiration<br />
for something that you can't quite control. Maybe it's silly to think that<br />
I'm creating laughter that emits from you belly up through your throat<br />
from that dimpled grin and explodes into the world like a platter of fine<br />
wines sorted out in particular cups. A dose of medicine that you've concocted<br />
just by being you and its intoxicating to see that and hear you in the way<br />
that makes me anxious that it isn't all a fantasy. Maybe I'm silly or pathetic<br />
for inching a finger toward your hand in order that it will be taken and cherished<br />
but despite what possibilities may come from my adorations of your life I can't help<br />
but feel defenseless. If you are indifferent to the affection that I want to convey<br />
I will fall on my sword eventually but as it stands it is sheathed, and I am content<br />
just to breathe the air in the same spaces that you stand. In such a simple and sublime<br />
way I am thinking of you with a dream and a prayer, but it is not so bad as to be the end<br />
of the world if dreams do not come to pass. I have lived long enough into the days<br />
to understand the limits of attraction, and to possess a defense for sword wounds.<br />
Maybe I'm silly for thinking so but your smile tells me otherwise. <br />
As do your eyes.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-6283972693331694142017-06-07T15:58:00.000-04:002017-06-07T15:58:07.801-04:00Possible new novel idea.<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
This is a short story or novel idea rough draft. I'm not sure what it will become but I'm pretty proud of this opening. Again, rough draft so it has a lot of unnecesary words in it and some trimming that could be done. So I'm aware of that, but I do like the ideas in it:</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">THE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">TECHNICIAN<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I hate the way the image freezes on the picture of a
fading child. That sad picture of
rolling waves that ebb and flow and attack the shoreline only to miss the child
completely. It’s a fabrication,
something someone altered to make nice what was once bitter and cruel. What they don’t see is the child going
forward in life and her eyes watching in disdain as her own life passes her by,
for those three or four years. She’s
filled with resentment, but she’s tried to forget it. Her mind has deteriorated and all she sees
now is her child. Fading away as a specter. She doesn’t recall the moments when she
started to fully hate him, and his stupid big eyed stare. That genuine pathetic curiosity of the
world. She ignores it, but if I plugged
my own mind in and thought hard I guarantee I’d see her looking back at me from
the kitchen table. Cross legged and
dragging on a cigarette and emitting the smoke into rings that I was mesmerized
with. I could recall though that although
she could do magic her eyes were devilish.
Smoke rings were the only thing that ever made my mother ethereal. The last time, out of the very few times she
ever touched me was when she squeezed my shoulder and leaned in to my ear, and
said, “Do good.” A slight pinch of her
claws, and then a clack of a step, a heel – she loved to wear them – and a
slamming door. It was cold in that
room, in that facility. I was a puppy
dropped on the doorstep of a farmhouse, never checking to see if a fire burned
for the chimney or if water ran through the pipes. Left where it appeared to resemble a house, a
yard. My mother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I scroll the ball mouse and click to drag her imagery
into the save file, uploading them into the tank. Next to me her chamber moves a slight
hiccup. She’s convulsed in a minor way
as they all do. Minute and quick as if a
probe in their heads wasn’t etching a copy to pass through the channels into
the bank system. If I wanted to I could
scroll the mouse a little more, click on my grabber tool and skim around the
recesses of her repression, comb away until some sort of sorrow emitted
itself. Instead, I click the power down
icon, and the chamber squeezes out the cooling mist of oxygen reserves and the
dome cover opens. I hit the page button
for geriatric services. The business of
memory storage had struck a chord the last twelve years as dementia and Alzheimer’s
had increased exponentially. People had
begun to live their lives through screens and social media. Their minds were prone to weakening more
than they had ever been. Soon, they
couldn’t form memories properly, couldn’t contract the diseases of never
forgetting, or else contracted the real diseases of forgetting everything. My mother fell into that category. As she began to stir she routinely turned her
face toward me, as it lay there upon that silken pillow, and asked the
question, “Did you find him?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“’fraid not ma’am.”
I lied. After all I was right
there inches away from giving her that reunion she thought she so desperately wanted,
but if that were the case why would she have someone fiddle around and make
nice that which she wanted to know. Of
course, the altercation wasn’t recent, it was some long off thing she had done
shortly after giving me to the foster system in order to diminish her
guilt. The boy in the image wasn’t even
me. I was a dark skinned Hispanic boy,
a tuft of thick hair atop my head, and with tattered clothes. Her new son was a shiny Caucasian with
perpetual smile, his hair cut short and neat.
His clothes pristine and new.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Her name was Martha Reems, serial code: 2-2-56. A Second generation client of a Cerebrum
Depository. It being one of the
original buildings of the system. A
milestone in mind management. Not just
a storage facility – that was just the civilian application – but a research
compound. That was downstairs, and above
my clearance grade. It was nothing
terribly sinister depending on what aisle the protesters landed on. They saw memory storage a slight against
natural degradation, and the will of their god. Others saw it a perversion of nature, which
was just another way of saying what the first people said. Most batted for the same teams, but I had
been down in the compounds when I was originally hired in. A guided tour passed ceiled doors in
glistening white hallways. No one was
screaming, no cadavers piled in cold storage.
Rows of computers, volunteers, and non-disclosure agreements. It was perhaps twisted, but not vile. Her name was Martha Reems, second generation
donator. She got to revisit the
memories she wanted to see, and the depository got to map her synapses. In exchange for her to see her own lies of
the past and look at her glittered mistakes they got to take a pretty picture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What the nay-sayers never cared to admit, or to
acknowledge was that because of said pictures, scientists could confer with
medical professionals, and shape cures.
Every day new cures were being implemented, new tests were being done,
concoctions concocted. Slowly the
damage of deteriorated brain diseases was being undone, yet not at too far off
stages like that of 2-2-56. No, her
mind was passed the point of repair, but if the depository had come so far in
curing mental breakdown what would be their motivation in helping sick old
ladies live their lies? Marketing strategies. People liked to revisit their memories of
course, if something particularly magical happened: a child’s birth, the
engagement party or quite the popular choice was first sexual encounters. I’d rather watch a million child
births. The system was mostly automated;
I was a glorified button pusher.
Dragging dated hardware around to point and click and drag to trash cans
and folders while people slept semi-comatose in shiny glass balls. Technicians were a necessity. No matter how much automation was pushed for,
because machines are and always will be prone to breaking. A loosening bolt here, a malfunctioning
door. Often we were there to simply
make sure the clients didn’t get their gowns caught in the doors. Nearly unnecessary. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Most importantly though technicians watched the
code. Which meant we watched the
memories. There were hiccups with the little
bridging claws, like needle and thread. Weaving
in and out of sweet spots in the brain and playing connect-the-dots with
various associated memories. What might
have lit up a recollection of a lover’s final quarrel might also invigorate the
first sexual touch, and vice versa, like word association. These jumps were not made easily in the
code, the computer had trouble determining priority no matter what scripted
events we implemented based on our clients wish for that day. I had to take my clients trust and be their fingertips. But with Martha, I gave her plenty of
scars. Highlighting a memory would
reveal its emotional resonance on a color spectrum, joy, hate, fear,
sadness. I perceived that she would
have liked to visit as much biting sadness as she could, the kind people
gritted and pushed through as the tears streamed down their faces. Of course, they too had some control and she
always brought herself back to me, but not me on that beach. The bitch, my mother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Cures abound, a long list of ailing clientele set to
fall off the mortal coil, all these issues plaguing the fears of the
stockholders. That was when dream
storage was born. The bread and butter
of the business.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Martha, my birther, got up out of the machine. Sitting on the edge her bare ankles dangling
a couple inches from the floor. She
coughs a little and reaches for a glass of water we always have ready for them –
it gets terribly dry inside the dome. “I’m
not so sure this is working, I’m not so sure what I’m even doing here.” She said it, just like she always did. She was quite present right afterwards, the
electrical charges in her brain stimulating enough to give her a relapse into
normalcy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“You know they say the more you go the better the
chance you’ll figure out just what is you are looking for. What else do you have to lose Martha. Ms. Reems I mean. You’ll be back again next week and we can
look in another nook, in another cranny.
It doesn’t hurt.” I tell her
knowing full well the drain it has on the mental mind, its tiring, exhausting
having probes poking in dormant places.
It excites the mind but then the forced open flowers begin to dwindle,
and fade away. And her condition,
beyond repair, always a whole island missing when she comes back and I hoping
as I do that not all islands will be gone.
I know that I’m killing her though, or assisting in her death at
least. The more I meddle the quicker
she’ll go. Not if I was a good little
technician and followed my script, their clients are fine and content not to
see everything, but I need to find myself somewhere in her altered history.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The doors open and snaps shut, and the nurse greets
Reems, and gives me a nod that I’m free to go to the lounge till my next client
arrives. It’s a new client, a dreamer,
and I must have my entrance interview before I’m allowed to work on him. I hate that part. I grab my manila folder from my desk and lock
out my control console. I look back at
Martha when I reach the door and the nurse is leading her to the dressing scrim,
and I like how weak and frail she moves across the room. It also worries me, she could go any day
now, die without telling me in her pretty little pictures why she would abandon
me like she did, and then replace my face with some blonde-haired brat. “Have a nice evening Ms. Reems.” I say it like I mean it in that customer
service play voice and leave the room so I don’t have to listen to her half
assed response.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-53716103259159997092017-06-07T10:24:00.000-04:002017-06-07T10:24:49.611-04:00A Population of FliesThere were several little flies who buzzed around the heap and discerned nothing from the smell.<br />
They could not differentiate between it and the fresh cut grass that surrounded but they were sure it was right.<br />
For you see the aroma inherit to the senses of the fly are different than traditional.<br />
They sense a smell and are accustomed to swarming not caring if a scent is good or if its bad but it does not matter either way in reality.<br />
For there is a certain beauty in the natural breaking down of what they can get and it is not so bad as to wonder as to how this sort of relationship to the problem and the buzzing can solve the ecosystems woes.<br />
Do not disapparge the fly for the disgusting beauty it perpatrates because even the fly has a duty to uphold in the face of man made catastrophe.<br />
In the end it will not think, for after all it cannot because it can simply walk on the wild side and see the sweet success of the carcass.<br />
Rot is one persons vomit enducting edict and another flies opportunity for feasting.<br />
We are all but an organism in the end, and we should not lift a foot out of the cycle for then we are left with a growing pile of foul smells.<br />
If it is the wish of mankind to rid itself of the buzzing of fly wings then it would seem in their best interest to not give them room to overpopulate our planet.<br />
That being said because the more we stack the bodies the more the fly, and the roach, and the dwindling bee will have dominion.<br />
A buffett unto the insectoids, and they will not see the terror.<br />
Bottom line, no need to hurt eachother, or destroy the lives we have built because there is no reason for giving feed to flies.<br />
Why do we serve eachother up, when there are plenty of moments for nature to create a platter.<br />
I digress, because while the fly that buzzes has a purpose I abhor it in my ear as I attempt to write what it is I can, but what good is creativity if there is no one around to read it.<br />
Take a moment, and pause and think on the sins, for the fly will take opportunity, and we should be wary how much opportunity it should take.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8882897883221057768.post-68024974798916510402017-06-06T10:30:00.001-04:002017-06-06T11:28:40.240-04:00Long WindedIn the mind of most it is common to never decipher the truth,<br />
because it is of no consequence to the average mind what that truth is,<br />
but in the end maybe it should matter because often falshoods<br />
are what lie on the other side of the vastness of the oceans<br />
of speech. A good line leading men to drown themselves for glory<br />
is just as dangerous as a bad line leading men to not react and gorge<br />
themselves on the sloth of their devising. Do you not see the paradox<br />
that the average idiot conveys? Or is the blindness so common that even<br />
the deaf cannot help. Lead the men forward and let the dum speak, for the stupidity<br />
of the carcasses is legion. That great horizon with that orange setting sun<br />
is humming a song that no one wants to wander near, but most sleep and dream<br />
about. The cataclysm is coming but not in the way that they thought,<br />
but in the heartless actions of the speakers, with severed heads in fists, and orange<br />
skin of shreiking voice, and who can determine the compasses directions,<br />
when the compromise of compassion is given way to statehood. We are all a race<br />
of idiots, but we can swim, and we can dig our way out of the holes we have dug,<br />
it is only a matter of will power. Or else we can scratch and sniff the sticker<br />
at the bottom of the pool, and dig lower to the molten core so that we are<br />
eviscerated through vaporization our own bodies a whisper of a gods joke.<br />
Don't laugh too loud, for then everyone will know you've figured it out,<br />
and they will never allow you or the multitudes who know to ever let it go.<br />
It will be the end of all, for the lake is acidic and we can not hope to crawl<br />
away.Aaronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03053939567834018599noreply@blogger.com0