Fucked

It is interesting to note that there is not a specific person that cannot get in the way of this messed up conundrum, because you don't understand that you are fucked if you get in the way of the bullet, because it will tear through your soul as though there is nothing left to do, and you are fucked if you let it hit you of course, not choosing to run or choosing to run will result in similar damage, and it will fucking hurt.  so you dive right in, right on into it, head first and breaking, and shattering, all those bones that you thought  you had, but your still fucked as all hell because lets face it the devil needs you to fail.  But what of god that son of a bitch has bigger fish to fry so as your felony rises, and you curse the heavens for the failings they gave you that make you feel like hell you will die all over inside.  Yes your fucked.  You stand out on the precipise and you take a gander at all of the willful people who have thrown themselves over, and some have been saved, but most are splattered on the sides of the wall.  And you can take your best chance, and leap and hope that you are hailed on up high, but its time to face facts you fucking lost it.  You may not be a fortune teller, but you are doomed to be stuck as a fucking lost cause.  And no matter how many beautiful people you want to surround yourself with,  you are fucked.  totally and utterly fucked.  its not the first time either, eventually you'll try it again, and you'll be dead.  Its over.  Stick to yourself, stick to what you know, don't worry about that legacy that you will never be able to create.  Or all of those children that you will never have, becaue inevitably you area  dead man, a corpse walkings, and you most likekly then will be shooting blanks, for undead have other things to worry about.  So fuck it, fuck yourself, you're worthless in their eyes, well fuck them.  Because you've got bigger fish to fry, yes you've got bigger mistakes to fuck.

Looking Out Toward Paradise

There is a certain calm about tomorrow when nothing is quite known.

A serenity that one can not overestimate that which is not seen.

Through rose colored glasses we peer forward into infinity,

And for once we are all guilty of similar ignorance.

For tomorrow as it is is not known from you to I.

It cannot be sorted or fathomed by gods or by science.

It can hold the greatest damage and it can hold the greatest joy.

and it can fill every Neanderthal with aspirations or anxieties.

In those fragments of light that are so called the future,

There is a wish, and a hope and a prayer

That skis over the immediacy of our now's

And we find ourselves hopeful but also find ourselves afraid.

In that abyss of darkness, that oh so welcoming water over that edge,

We can see whatever it is we want to see, and we can claim to know

what it is none of us really know,

and that is of what tomorrow could bring, or should

Not of what it will.

For that is still the greatest mystery left to us.

Candle, Plush Teddy and a Palette in the Amazon rain forest.

Emil took a step forward with the lone candle before him as his feet sunk into the mud and they vanished as though he had no feet at all.  It had been so long since he had seen his parents but it was not as long as he had been without his favorite teddy bear.   The plush animal had collected dust in his old childhood home and there was no force on earth that could bring him to go back to that crooked old house and revisit his former bedroom.   He  pulled his feet out of the mud with just enough force and took another step.   The mosquitos attacked him with vigorous speed as if they had not fed on blood in ages.  The welts were many and near between each other.

Emil thought on his life, on that teddy bear.   He thought on all the memories of his mother and of his father cradling him and he enveloped in his comforter.   The teddy bear was resting beside him then, when he was smaller it was the only thing that made him happy.   That was before they had moved to the Amazon.  Before his doctor parents decided to uproot them from their home in the city.   That comfy apartment, that illusionary town house divided into a duplex.  He had left his teddy bear behind sitting on a shelf.

The candle was waning away, the flame spiked and fluttered and acted as though it was about to fade away and then would emerge back into its yellow and red vibrancy.   The faded gray greens of the leafs on the trees, and all the bugs were mute colored.   Frogs croaked and night birds cooed, and in that midnight hour he was afraid.   But Emil was determined to continue on.

When he had gotten word of his father's illness.   The disease that had ultimately claimed him that he had contracted from one of the many people he couldn’t save.   He wanted to go back to that spot.   Where only his father cared to stay.  An encampment out in the middle of the trees in a clearing.  His second home.   A crowded and loud makeshift village of white tents.   Emil lifted another muddy boot out of the ground.

His mother was sitting by his father’s side when he died.   That had only been a couple weeks before.  Ever since then he had sat quietly and waited for his mother to come to, to waken from her mourning, her trance like state of grieving.   Emil couldn't take it anymore.  She needed to finish the work to snap out of it.

The camp came into view as Emil struggled to find his breath.  The heat in the rainforest caused his clothes to stick.  To cling to his flesh as though he were newly wet.   The sweat, it stank, and he continued on.   There was no fear of animals, and no need for Teddy bears.   And they had never asked him if he wanted to take it with him.  He had never realized that car ride would be the thing that divided him from his comforts.

Emil walked straight to his parents tent.  Nothing out of place just an abandoned cot, and a trekking backpack sitting against one of the poles.   Emil wrapped his fist around the handle of the backpack and took a seat on the cot, planting his feet deep in the dirt floor.   He unzipped the pack.

Inside were small paint bottles.  Zip loc baggies full of brushes.  Emil pulled out the palette and saw the smudged mix of paints, the blotches of ugly colors, and their beautiful originals.  He saw the flesh colors.  He brought the palette to his nose and breathed in deeply, and he sighed.  And then he cried.  On the other side of the room was a portrait of Emil sitting atop his mother's lap that his father had painted.   And in his tiny hands was that plush teddy bear.  s the candle burned out he knew that it would never be that way again.

Adolescents

This is the funnel cloud of human indecency
That spans up to the outer spaces and demands to be seen
Like a spoilt child it clings to the sky claiming it for its own
The cloud in its calamity pushes out the rest
It screams and bellows and says I am here