Sunday, November 30, 2008
Well, Last Post for NaBloPoMo
I'm probably going to do it again, but not next month. It's been fun, found myself writing a lot of pointless stuff, but what isn't pointless?
Saturday, November 29, 2008
time
tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock
Friday, November 28, 2008
can you see the door? it is closing. can you find the opening?
can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is opening. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing. can you see the door? it is closing.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
NoThanksgiving
Well folks, it's Thanksgiving; a day when people are allowed to brag about how many animals they murdered. A day that gives unspoken permission to eat as much as you can without exploding. Enjoy your turkey, for it gave it's life so you can enjoy the thirty minutes it usually takes to eat. However, when you eat it, make sure you take note of the taste of a potentially beautiful life.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
I Loved Lucy
The clock always seems to tick louder when I can’t fall asleep. I’ve been awake for three days; the person in the apartment above me will not stop. If she isn’t watching “I Love Lucy” on maximum volume, Frank Sinatra’s voice is vibrating my ceiling fan. I would go up there to ask her to turn it down, but I was raised to respect my elders. Also, I’m afraid it would spread throughout the building that I am harassing the elderly woman in 5b.
My fingers begin to work out a beat on the mattress.
Beads of sweat pushing out of my head.
The hum of the ceiling fan rattles in my mind.
I pull myself out of bed and make my way into the kitchen. Pouring myself a glass of water, I realize I can still hear the wails of Lucille Ball. Oh my God, if this doesn’t stop I might go insane.
Desi Arnaz Disorder.
Vivian Vance Syndrome.
William Frawleyosis.
I look at the clock above my sink, five-thirty. I might as well get ready for work; today is an early day at the office, I have to be there by seven. Something about a new client with a lot to offer.
After taking a shower, I get dressed and eat breakfast. At the elevator I’m not sure what button to press, up or down. I press up. I reach the fifth floor and walk down the hallway. There’s 5b. I press my ear to the door and listen. My hopes of hearing movement were drowned out by Ricky Ricardo ranting in Spanish. The person across from 5b walks out her door. She’s staring at me. Without a word, I walk to the elevator and press down.
At work, I can’t seem to focus. The words on my computer screen seem to dance. Co-workers try to talk to me during lunch, but my attention is on the slow drip of water coming from the water cooler.
I can only scowl at the secretary, Lucille. Every time I look at her she seems to shift uncomfortably. To make things worse, she has red hair and wears clothes that look like they’re from the ‘50s. Her face may not resemble the fire-haired Lucy from television, but it’s close enough.
The hands on the clock move slowly. Mocking me. It’s nice to be away from the noise, but the silence is just as bad.
Slipping the key into the lock of my apartment, I can already hear 5b’s television. And it is still “I Love Lucy.” Is there a channel just for that fucking show? This is the worst it’s ever been, her television is usually off at this time.
I pick up the phone and call my friend.
“Hello?” He answers, a constant thud in the background.
“Hey, it’s me. I was wondering if I can stay at your place tonight. The lady upstairs has been blaring her television every night and I haven’t slept in—-”
“No can do, man. I’ve got, um, a friend over. She’s going to be over for a while.” I hear a prolonged moan before he hangs up.
I lie on my couch and turn on my television. I turn it up as loud as I can. How do you fucking like that? I think to myself, staring at the ceiling. Even with the volume of my TV turned all the way up, I begin to doze off. A commercial catches my attention:
“This month on TV Land, is all Lucy all the time! That’s right; everyday, 24/7 for thirty days, is an ‘I Love Lucy’ marathon.” This is spoken over scattered clips of the show.
“Holy shit…” I say to myself. I don’t know what to do. Do I just sit here for a whole month and tough it out? Or should I go up there?
I put my shoes on and walk to the elevator.
I press up.
I knock lightly on the door. Realizing Fred Mertz’s argument with Ethel overpowers any sound in the hallway, I knock louder. And, like some cheesy horror film, the door pushes open slightly on my last knock.
“Hello?” I say as I walk through the door. As I walk in I notice the atmosphere changes completely. The room is cold, and there is a strong, rotting smell. All around the apartment, on the floor and walls, is “I Love Lucy” memorabilia. I see the top of someone’s head slightly above the back of a recliner. I walk toward her.
“Ma’m? Hi, I’m from 4b, the apartment downstairs? I’ve been having trouble sleeping and I was wondering if you cou—-” I stopped dead in my tracks. In the chair, wearing a fading t-shirt with an image of Lucy and Ethel—-covered in chocolate behind a conveyor belt—-is the corpse of the tenet of 5b. As if reading my mind, Lucy begins to wail.
My fingers begin to work out a beat on the mattress.
Beads of sweat pushing out of my head.
The hum of the ceiling fan rattles in my mind.
I pull myself out of bed and make my way into the kitchen. Pouring myself a glass of water, I realize I can still hear the wails of Lucille Ball. Oh my God, if this doesn’t stop I might go insane.
Desi Arnaz Disorder.
Vivian Vance Syndrome.
William Frawleyosis.
I look at the clock above my sink, five-thirty. I might as well get ready for work; today is an early day at the office, I have to be there by seven. Something about a new client with a lot to offer.
After taking a shower, I get dressed and eat breakfast. At the elevator I’m not sure what button to press, up or down. I press up. I reach the fifth floor and walk down the hallway. There’s 5b. I press my ear to the door and listen. My hopes of hearing movement were drowned out by Ricky Ricardo ranting in Spanish. The person across from 5b walks out her door. She’s staring at me. Without a word, I walk to the elevator and press down.
At work, I can’t seem to focus. The words on my computer screen seem to dance. Co-workers try to talk to me during lunch, but my attention is on the slow drip of water coming from the water cooler.
I can only scowl at the secretary, Lucille. Every time I look at her she seems to shift uncomfortably. To make things worse, she has red hair and wears clothes that look like they’re from the ‘50s. Her face may not resemble the fire-haired Lucy from television, but it’s close enough.
The hands on the clock move slowly. Mocking me. It’s nice to be away from the noise, but the silence is just as bad.
Slipping the key into the lock of my apartment, I can already hear 5b’s television. And it is still “I Love Lucy.” Is there a channel just for that fucking show? This is the worst it’s ever been, her television is usually off at this time.
I pick up the phone and call my friend.
“Hello?” He answers, a constant thud in the background.
“Hey, it’s me. I was wondering if I can stay at your place tonight. The lady upstairs has been blaring her television every night and I haven’t slept in—-”
“No can do, man. I’ve got, um, a friend over. She’s going to be over for a while.” I hear a prolonged moan before he hangs up.
I lie on my couch and turn on my television. I turn it up as loud as I can. How do you fucking like that? I think to myself, staring at the ceiling. Even with the volume of my TV turned all the way up, I begin to doze off. A commercial catches my attention:
“This month on TV Land, is all Lucy all the time! That’s right; everyday, 24/7 for thirty days, is an ‘I Love Lucy’ marathon.” This is spoken over scattered clips of the show.
“Holy shit…” I say to myself. I don’t know what to do. Do I just sit here for a whole month and tough it out? Or should I go up there?
I put my shoes on and walk to the elevator.
I press up.
I knock lightly on the door. Realizing Fred Mertz’s argument with Ethel overpowers any sound in the hallway, I knock louder. And, like some cheesy horror film, the door pushes open slightly on my last knock.
“Hello?” I say as I walk through the door. As I walk in I notice the atmosphere changes completely. The room is cold, and there is a strong, rotting smell. All around the apartment, on the floor and walls, is “I Love Lucy” memorabilia. I see the top of someone’s head slightly above the back of a recliner. I walk toward her.
“Ma’m? Hi, I’m from 4b, the apartment downstairs? I’ve been having trouble sleeping and I was wondering if you cou—-” I stopped dead in my tracks. In the chair, wearing a fading t-shirt with an image of Lucy and Ethel—-covered in chocolate behind a conveyor belt—-is the corpse of the tenet of 5b. As if reading my mind, Lucy begins to wail.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Book Banning at PHS
At my former high school, Portage High School, the administration has banned the novel, The Perks of Being a Wallflower from the curriculum of a ninth-grade class. Also, in an article explaining the decision, the student newspaper, The Pow Wow, has been placed under prior review, forcing them to send every newspaper to the administration for their observation before going to print. I am most angry at this decision and have written a letter to the superintendent responsible for the decision. This is an infringement on the rights of the students and faculty, and a blatant infringement of the Constitution of the United States of America. My hope is that this ban will be repealed.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Jacob’s Step Ladder
They said the house was just settling. Creaking giving way to deep, subtle moans. I’d always heard that new houses did that, but I knew it wasn’t the same. There was an ominous tone to it all. It sounded as if the carpenters left a dismal orchestra between the studs and floorboards.
My wife had been nagging me to finish painting the nursery. My son would be arriving in one month, and the paint had been sitting in the room since we moved in. Procrastination is the best tool in these situations. I guess I figured the longer I put off painting the room, the later the baby would come. To be honest, despite what I told my wife and everyone else, I didn’t want a child. At least not then, probably never. I just didn’t think I, or my wife for that matter, was ready for that burden. Mentioning the “A” word was out of the question when we found out, so I kept my mouth shut and molded it into a smile.
“When are you going to get that room done, Harold?” She asked as I walked into the kitchen. She said it like she was my mother, I resented that.
“I don’t know, probably next week,” I said, detached. I couldn’t look at her, I just stared into my cup of coffee as I stirred sugar into it. That was our conversation every morning since we moved in.
Either that or hello.
Or goodbye.
Or the rare I love you.
The last morning we saw each other, she asked the same question. And I gave her the same answer. I saw her shake her head.
On my way to work, I thought about it. Whenever I got home and was in bed, I would get up when she fell asleep and paint. Surprise! For the first time since she got pregnant, I couldn’t wait to get home. She would be excited. Thrilled.
I walked through the door. “Hey honey!” I yelled. There was no answer. Only the dim creaks and breathy moans of the house. She wasn’t in the kitchen to ask me the question. She wasn’t in the bedroom taking a nap. I saw a wedge of light on the floor from the room at the end of the hall. The nursery. It seemed to take forever to walk down there. My steps began to fade each time I took one. My heart was pounding in my ears. I walked into the nursery.
There she was on the floor.
Face down, motionless.
Blood stretching across the carpet.
I looked at the wall; she must’ve been painting the last letter in our child’s name—Jacob—when she lost her balance on the ladder. Landing on her stomach. And there I was, wife in a coma with my dead child inside her.
My wife had been nagging me to finish painting the nursery. My son would be arriving in one month, and the paint had been sitting in the room since we moved in. Procrastination is the best tool in these situations. I guess I figured the longer I put off painting the room, the later the baby would come. To be honest, despite what I told my wife and everyone else, I didn’t want a child. At least not then, probably never. I just didn’t think I, or my wife for that matter, was ready for that burden. Mentioning the “A” word was out of the question when we found out, so I kept my mouth shut and molded it into a smile.
“When are you going to get that room done, Harold?” She asked as I walked into the kitchen. She said it like she was my mother, I resented that.
“I don’t know, probably next week,” I said, detached. I couldn’t look at her, I just stared into my cup of coffee as I stirred sugar into it. That was our conversation every morning since we moved in.
Either that or hello.
Or goodbye.
Or the rare I love you.
The last morning we saw each other, she asked the same question. And I gave her the same answer. I saw her shake her head.
On my way to work, I thought about it. Whenever I got home and was in bed, I would get up when she fell asleep and paint. Surprise! For the first time since she got pregnant, I couldn’t wait to get home. She would be excited. Thrilled.
I walked through the door. “Hey honey!” I yelled. There was no answer. Only the dim creaks and breathy moans of the house. She wasn’t in the kitchen to ask me the question. She wasn’t in the bedroom taking a nap. I saw a wedge of light on the floor from the room at the end of the hall. The nursery. It seemed to take forever to walk down there. My steps began to fade each time I took one. My heart was pounding in my ears. I walked into the nursery.
There she was on the floor.
Face down, motionless.
Blood stretching across the carpet.
I looked at the wall; she must’ve been painting the last letter in our child’s name—Jacob—when she lost her balance on the ladder. Landing on her stomach. And there I was, wife in a coma with my dead child inside her.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Oh What the Hell: Even More Non-Sensical Poetry
the waterbottle
calvary spins the flesh-yarn
on rusted flag poles.
calvary spins the flesh-yarn
on rusted flag poles.
Friday, November 21, 2008
fiddlesticks
As Tyler Durden says in Fight Club, "The things you own end up owning you." What would you do if your television went out? Really, what would you do? What would I do if my computer went out? Probably get out my manual typewriter or get a pen and piece of paper. American society is so wrapped up in what's going on in a celebrity's life. We live in a society manufactured by Hollywood and the media. Anything can be said on the news and people will believe it. An utter lie (especially in regards to politics) can be made into complete truth if it is said by an over-oiled man in a fucking suit behind a desk, just as long as he is staring out you from the television.
What I really despise about this is that people are so concerned about what is happening in Britney Spears' or Miley Cyrus' personal life, that they are being completely blinded from their own life. QUIT BEING SHEEP, BE CONCERNED ABOUT YOUR OWN FUCKING LIFE!
What I really despise about this is that people are so concerned about what is happening in Britney Spears' or Miley Cyrus' personal life, that they are being completely blinded from their own life. QUIT BEING SHEEP, BE CONCERNED ABOUT YOUR OWN FUCKING LIFE!
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Thanksgiving Vacation
I only have two classes tomorrow, then a one week break for Thanksgiving. I am just going to relaxxxxxxxxxxxxx.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Quiet Desperation is the English Way
i've got the pink floyd cancer
it's running through my veins
i had a led zeppelin stroke
i thought it was a joke
guitar solos are not the cure
but bass solos might help
This poem is...well, it's a joke, no way would I seriously write something like this.
it's running through my veins
i had a led zeppelin stroke
i thought it was a joke
guitar solos are not the cure
but bass solos might help
This poem is...well, it's a joke, no way would I seriously write something like this.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
snowdeaf
the wet cotton surrounds me,
merely waiting to boil
in the sun.
have you swallowed your pill, yet?
or did you slip it under your mattress?
a snowdeaf winter,
leading into a
snowblind spring.
merely waiting to boil
in the sun.
have you swallowed your pill, yet?
or did you slip it under your mattress?
a snowdeaf winter,
leading into a
snowblind spring.
Monday, November 17, 2008
words
words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words
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Sunday, November 16, 2008
riverrun
Do you really want to read this? Do you really need to read this? Probably not. But if you are reading this, you might as well continue. Imagine this: the rotting carcass of an owl is on your porch, its deteriorating eye seems to follow you wherever you go. What will you do?
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Do You Have Any Guts?
I highly recommend that you read this short story by Chuck Palahniuk. It's entitled "Guts" and it is possibly the most disturbing thing I have ever read. I recently purchased a copy of Chuck Palahniuk's "Invisible Monsters" which I hope I love as much as I do his short stories.
Friday, November 14, 2008
caravan gargling
In light of this video, here is an impromptu nonsensical poem.
a withered sigh
rambles a cereal box dream
victory starts at the synagogue
bitter and free
sugar coated momentum
swings me into the post-it note jungle
a veering smile of sweat and cheese
if you take away my pony,
i'll take away your bowls
a telephone spaghetti dinner dragon
twisted its ankle.
Enter text here.
a withered sigh
rambles a cereal box dream
victory starts at the synagogue
bitter and free
sugar coated momentum
swings me into the post-it note jungle
a veering smile of sweat and cheese
if you take away my pony,
i'll take away your bowls
a telephone spaghetti dinner dragon
twisted its ankle.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Soaked in Red
Ernest Miller put a bottle of wine in the basket of his bicycle, as he did every Thursday. He was a millionaire of inheritance, upholding the Miller name as president of Miller Knives Company. Though 56 years of age—not one gray hair on his head—Ernest was single. Coquettish women of all ages flirted with him, but he knew that they were aware of his wealth. He was content with Mary even though they had to be together secretly.
Mary was an honest woman for the most part. She had been married for almost 40 years; in the midpoint of those 40 years, she began developing a façade that made her appear to be happily married. She wanted more. Mary was in the grocery store, checking off the necessities and luxuries on her list, when she first saw Ernest. He was weighing a bag of grapes when her eye drifted to him. He was wearing a dark gray suit, his face bearing an always trimmed beard. She knew about him, but never said one word to him, nor him to her. She knew of his company, and the millions that it wielded. However, that didn’t interest her—her husband was rich, not as rich as Ernest, but they never had to worry about money. They talked for the first time that night—in the line at the register—and that was the beginning of their hidden relationship.
Mary’s husband worked late on Thursdays so that’s when Ernest would come over to their house. They lived in a small town; if any one of the neighbors noticed Ernest going over to that house, her husband would find out the next day, without fail. Usually Ernest drove a brand new Cadillac, but everyone knew who drove that car because nobody in town had one besides him. So he bought a rusting bike from a thrift shop, and pedaled his way down the road with a worn hat on his head every week. And every week he brought along a bottle of wine, pulled directly from his basement collection.
Ernest made it a habit to get ready and ride over to the house at six, always arriving at 6:30. That Thursday was no different; it was 6 o’clock so he got dressed in casual clothing, which was quite the contrast to his usual business suit. He put the wine in the basket, and made his way down the long winding road that led to his large yet subtle mansion.
He took his feet off the pedals, allowing gravity to push him down the road. He was admiring the forest that stretched across below the right side of the driveway when he realized he forgot his wallet. In harmony with this realization, the chain on his bicycle snapped. The sound of the break echoed above the tops of the trees. A coyote bellowed a howl that seemed to respond to the crack of the chain. The back end of the bicycle lifted to please the force of the momentum, sending Ernest over the handlebars. His head bounced off the gravel road and he rolled onto the hill that poured steeply into the forest. Unconscious, he tumbled down the hill until he was finally stopped by a tree. His head crashed into the base of the trunk.
_________________________________________
Mary was worried; Ernest was never late. It was 7 o’clock and there was no sign of him. She called his house several times. No answer. She could see him in her mind pulling his bike into the garage with the bottle of wine in the basket. She loved him much more than she did her husband. She wished she could tell everyone, but she was confined by marriage.
The relationship between her and her husband had been deteriorating for some time, long before she met Ernest in the store. They always held each other when they went to sleep in the first few years of their marriage. However, swelling tension caused them to sleep with their backs facing each other.
The clock swung around to 8 o’clock as she became more worried. She got into her car; she was on her way to Ernest’s house.
_________________________________________
Ernest’s eyes opened with a start, he was dreary. Attempting to get up caused a throbbing pain. His hand shot up to feel his head, only to come back into his vision soaked in red. He rose slowly, putting his hand on the rough bark of the tree to steady himself. He didn’t know where or who he was. Looking around, he only saw the trees towering over him; a wind was glistening through the scarcity of leaves.
He heard a distant sound coming from ahead of him. He began to walk, treating each step with caution. Several minutes later he spotted a road resting atop a subtle hill, cars swishing by intermittently.
_______________________________________
Mary had her headlights turned on; the curtains of night had completely met. She was only a few minutes from his house. She had never been inside of it before, only seeing it in passing, but she was dreading to drive up the narrow road to get to his mansion.
Turning onto the road that led to Ernest’s driveway, she pulled a cigarette out of her purse and slipped it into her mouth. She grabbed the cigarette lighter that rested on the dashboard and flicked it twice. No fire. Only the smell of butane trickled into her nostrils. She hit a pothole, sending the lighter into the depthless floorboard.
“Shit,” she said, the cigarette bobbing. She took her right arm off the wheel and reached down to the floorboard. The moment she took her eye off the road to spot the lighter, a thud sounded in front of her. She looked up and saw the blood on her windshield, splattered like a Jackson Pollack painting.
_______________________________________
Ernest finally reached the road, he stood on the edge and looked down the street, it was pitch black. He heard a dim humming coming from behind him. He turned around as two circles of light were becoming brighter. Not knowing what it was, he stood there, hoping whatever it was would help him. The light became more intense, the hum a deafening roar.
Mary was an honest woman for the most part. She had been married for almost 40 years; in the midpoint of those 40 years, she began developing a façade that made her appear to be happily married. She wanted more. Mary was in the grocery store, checking off the necessities and luxuries on her list, when she first saw Ernest. He was weighing a bag of grapes when her eye drifted to him. He was wearing a dark gray suit, his face bearing an always trimmed beard. She knew about him, but never said one word to him, nor him to her. She knew of his company, and the millions that it wielded. However, that didn’t interest her—her husband was rich, not as rich as Ernest, but they never had to worry about money. They talked for the first time that night—in the line at the register—and that was the beginning of their hidden relationship.
Mary’s husband worked late on Thursdays so that’s when Ernest would come over to their house. They lived in a small town; if any one of the neighbors noticed Ernest going over to that house, her husband would find out the next day, without fail. Usually Ernest drove a brand new Cadillac, but everyone knew who drove that car because nobody in town had one besides him. So he bought a rusting bike from a thrift shop, and pedaled his way down the road with a worn hat on his head every week. And every week he brought along a bottle of wine, pulled directly from his basement collection.
Ernest made it a habit to get ready and ride over to the house at six, always arriving at 6:30. That Thursday was no different; it was 6 o’clock so he got dressed in casual clothing, which was quite the contrast to his usual business suit. He put the wine in the basket, and made his way down the long winding road that led to his large yet subtle mansion.
He took his feet off the pedals, allowing gravity to push him down the road. He was admiring the forest that stretched across below the right side of the driveway when he realized he forgot his wallet. In harmony with this realization, the chain on his bicycle snapped. The sound of the break echoed above the tops of the trees. A coyote bellowed a howl that seemed to respond to the crack of the chain. The back end of the bicycle lifted to please the force of the momentum, sending Ernest over the handlebars. His head bounced off the gravel road and he rolled onto the hill that poured steeply into the forest. Unconscious, he tumbled down the hill until he was finally stopped by a tree. His head crashed into the base of the trunk.
_________________________________________
Mary was worried; Ernest was never late. It was 7 o’clock and there was no sign of him. She called his house several times. No answer. She could see him in her mind pulling his bike into the garage with the bottle of wine in the basket. She loved him much more than she did her husband. She wished she could tell everyone, but she was confined by marriage.
The relationship between her and her husband had been deteriorating for some time, long before she met Ernest in the store. They always held each other when they went to sleep in the first few years of their marriage. However, swelling tension caused them to sleep with their backs facing each other.
The clock swung around to 8 o’clock as she became more worried. She got into her car; she was on her way to Ernest’s house.
_________________________________________
Ernest’s eyes opened with a start, he was dreary. Attempting to get up caused a throbbing pain. His hand shot up to feel his head, only to come back into his vision soaked in red. He rose slowly, putting his hand on the rough bark of the tree to steady himself. He didn’t know where or who he was. Looking around, he only saw the trees towering over him; a wind was glistening through the scarcity of leaves.
He heard a distant sound coming from ahead of him. He began to walk, treating each step with caution. Several minutes later he spotted a road resting atop a subtle hill, cars swishing by intermittently.
_______________________________________
Mary had her headlights turned on; the curtains of night had completely met. She was only a few minutes from his house. She had never been inside of it before, only seeing it in passing, but she was dreading to drive up the narrow road to get to his mansion.
Turning onto the road that led to Ernest’s driveway, she pulled a cigarette out of her purse and slipped it into her mouth. She grabbed the cigarette lighter that rested on the dashboard and flicked it twice. No fire. Only the smell of butane trickled into her nostrils. She hit a pothole, sending the lighter into the depthless floorboard.
“Shit,” she said, the cigarette bobbing. She took her right arm off the wheel and reached down to the floorboard. The moment she took her eye off the road to spot the lighter, a thud sounded in front of her. She looked up and saw the blood on her windshield, splattered like a Jackson Pollack painting.
_______________________________________
Ernest finally reached the road, he stood on the edge and looked down the street, it was pitch black. He heard a dim humming coming from behind him. He turned around as two circles of light were becoming brighter. Not knowing what it was, he stood there, hoping whatever it was would help him. The light became more intense, the hum a deafening roar.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
at work...
single serving xerox
dripping ink from the
edge of a sole, blinding
white sheet.
where are you hemingway?
to save me from
this paperclip jungle,
i hear your typewriter spitting,
but the man behind the keys
has absorbed into
the wooden chair.
show me the way hemingway,
illuminating computer screens
searing the mind
a detrimental hue waltzing
with a grind
dripping ink from the
edge of a sole, blinding
white sheet.
where are you hemingway?
to save me from
this paperclip jungle,
i hear your typewriter spitting,
but the man behind the keys
has absorbed into
the wooden chair.
show me the way hemingway,
illuminating computer screens
searing the mind
a detrimental hue waltzing
with a grind
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
ugh...
This is a society, if you want to give a perfect stranger an undeserving attitude, then fuck right off!
Monday, November 10, 2008
mornings...
My eyes feel like iron curtains, ready to fall in any spontaneous moment. Even though I have class, I feel that I wouldn't care if I fell asleep right now. Catching Z's in a world filled with Y's, even when I fall asleep I can't for a long time. I guess that's insomnia, but I don't really care, just as long as I get at least a few minutes of sleep every night.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
rainfall inside grenades
i see the tree trunks, they are contemplating deceit,
cracks in the concrete smile at me
from a gray, crumbling porch.
the bathtub is hogwash,
containing the severed antlers
of a schizophrenic reindeer.
fuck if i know, watching the horizon
dip into the xanax cauldron.
god damn it, rainfall inside grenades
wilting into the smell of a stale cigarette.
cracks in the concrete smile at me
from a gray, crumbling porch.
the bathtub is hogwash,
containing the severed antlers
of a schizophrenic reindeer.
fuck if i know, watching the horizon
dip into the xanax cauldron.
god damn it, rainfall inside grenades
wilting into the smell of a stale cigarette.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Fluent Leader
Watching Obama's first press conference brought a certain sense of comfort along with it. For the first time in a while, I got to hear the (future) president speak in complete sentences. Too long has it been that America's people has had their intelligence insulted by the one and only George W. Bush. We will have a president that actually reads his briefings (so that hopefully there will not be another 9/11) and a president that can confidently answer questions asked by journalists.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Nature's Teeth
Home for the weekend, with the strong November wind having a strong bite to it; however, the wind's bite doesn't bother me because the fine scent of fallen leaves seemed to be burned into the atmosphere, a scent that I will always welcome. I also derive great satisfaction from looking at the bare trees that are still home to a couple of stubborn leaves. Is there a place in the world where it is always Autumn? A place that a person such as myself can be comfortable all year round? Oh how I dream of such a place. Unfortunately, it seems as though right when Fall arrives, it escapes just as quickly, giving way to the bitter surge that is winter.
Jack and Jill went up the hill...
to fetch a pale of death
Jack broke his crown after Jill pushed him down,
flowing through her veins was meth.
Jill sang the star spangled banner
from atop the hill
not quite sure
so she took another pill.
she walked down the hill
and still moaning was Jack
she slipped out her blade
stabbing him twice in the back.
Jack broke his crown after Jill pushed him down,
flowing through her veins was meth.
Jill sang the star spangled banner
from atop the hill
not quite sure
so she took another pill.
she walked down the hill
and still moaning was Jack
she slipped out her blade
stabbing him twice in the back.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
radio daze
All right everyone, from 1pm to 3pm today I'll be on the radio. I don't talk much on my Thursday shows, but the music is usually awesome, so listen in. While I wait to walk over to the station, I want to get some thoughts out. People don't realize that what they hear on the news or in magazines/newspapers is usually bullshit, especially when it regards politicians. Granted, most politicians are scumbags (for lack of a better word), but for those of you mourning McCain supporters out there, quit calling Obama a socialist (or communist for those naive folks) because he definitely isn't. Here's a good overview of Socialism, read it and contact me if you find anything about Obama in there. Once people stop bowing down to the bias media like a flock of sheep, they will finally have a true understanding of what it means to be free, what it means to think on their own. Good luck, good afternoon, good day.
oh mornings
Oh mornings, the moment of the day that my mind seems to be darker than if it were night. One class today and then my radio show, using the rest of the day to read, rest, relax. After Obama's win a couple of nights ago, I've felt this sincere sense of pride for my country, something that I haven't truly felt in about 8 years. I expect him to do great things for America, but he'll have his hands full when attempting to clear all of the bullshit that Bush shat upon our country.
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