24 July 2016

When Samantha Met Sammy



Sammy was a small man with a big heart. Samantha was a big woman with no heart at all. Perhaps it was stolen from her, or perhaps she had been born without one. Most likely, she had removed it herself so as to become better at her job. Regardless, it was abundantly clear that it was long gone.

The two of them met at a cage match in South City. He wore a threadbare suit, and she had squeezed herself into something red. She was in the cage, clobbering someone named "Spitfire," and he was in the audience, halfway through a wince, clutching a bag of popcorn.

Across the auditorium, their eyes met. They both felt an instant pang inside. Was it love? Lust? Genetic predisposition? They didn't know. They couldn't even guess. But instantly they both felt the distance between them in a way they had never perceived physical space before: hereafter, no matter how close they could become, they would always feel too far apart.

When the moment ended, it was a jolt for both of them. Samantha was kicked in the head and then placed in an over-the-shoulder arm lock. Sammy spilled his popcorn.

23 July 2016

Ghosts of Underland

Alice stumbled upon the unmoving unbody of that which once lived, half become one with the ground she tread on. She screamed and ran, trampling over the corpses of so many more things that she once depended on. When they called to her, she could not look back.
.
In the clearing where the moon lay, Alice sat herself down to rest. A glowing something set itself down beside her, twinkling and sighing. But Alice did not see it, and, when she collapsed of exhaustion, landed upon its delicate frame.
.
Another unmoving dead to haunt the next passerby, two or three more, five or ten, a thousand. We are all trampling, falling, killing machines, filling the world with the death of our passing. It is who we are.

29 August 2012

Vanity

I laughed until my sides were sore
I talked until I voice was gone
I slept till I could sleep no more
And I begged for death in the end

I ate until my teeth decayed
I smoked until my lungs dried up
I drank until my liver grayed
And I begged for death in the end

05 April 2012

The Man Who Didn't Matter


(You know, everything "poetic" that I've written has been the result of what I can only call "vomiting." Life just builds up in my head until, eventually, I am supposed to be doing homework and words climb out of my head and march to the keyboard. I type like crazy for two minutes. Then later I post said vomit on my blog. Why? Who knows? Who cares?)


Nobody knows
So why speak the words
That everyone wants to hear
Hear them over and over
Televisions, radios and ballpoint pens
Men in suits falling forever in the dark
Wishing for their mothers
Grasping at nothing
Never grown up
Waiting in the empty house
In the chair
A shelf of books you’d never read
A throat of words you couldn’t speak
Because, after all, who are you
And what are they

It’s raining outside
The grass grows but he can’t
Because he’s inside
And the buildlings are full of snakes
Flicking tongues
In his his ears
Maybe someone somewhere sometime
Used the words he’ll never say
But now there’s lots of fish in the sea
And far too much sea for a fish
To know what he’s heard

Day and night and day again
Another swirling mass of somethings
We could never understand
The sand moving beneath us
That we could never grasp
Take the words you hear
Say them again to another lonely soul
Nobody knows you’re a liar
Not even you

25 February 2012

Why Boys Fight


I had never really understood why boys fight each other so much. I always thought it was just a kind of barbaric entertainment. But recently I realized that it actually has something to do with our development.
When I was a kid, my brother and I did not get along. Imagine getting along, and now imagine the opposite of getting along. That’s where we were. He was really annoying and I was really mean. I would hurt him, and he would throw a fit and run to my mother. Sometimes we played together, but the next day he would go back to being annoying and I would go back to being mean. We carried on in like fashion from the day he could talk until the day I left for college.
Many months later, I came home for the holidays. My brother challenged me to a duel. He produced the pair of durable plastic lightsabers which the two of us had fought with on several occasions. Of course, I obliged.
It was a chilly day and it had recently rained. It seemed a miracle that all the water hadn’t frozen. We decided to carry out the duel on our trampoline, because being able to jump five feet in the air adds a little spice to any brotherly confrontation. The moment we stepped onto that spongy surface, our socks soaked up a few teaspoons of frigid water and our feet were numb.
We crossed blades. We jumped really high. We wished there was an orchestra and choir belting out “Duel of the Fates” in our yard. However, just when things started to get exciting, I accidentally brought my blade down on my brother’s hand. He yelped. There was blood coming out of his knuckle. He bent down on his knees in a position that was oh, so familiar to me; he was going to cry and the fun was going to be over. I sighed and bounce/jumped towards him to begin consoling and/or talking my way out of trouble.
But at my approach, he looked up. There were tears in his eyes, but he wasn’t crying. I saw in his face that he had made a decision. He wasn’t going to mom this time; he wasn’t going to let me win that easily.
He clutched his weapon and came at me. It hurt pretty badly. I whipped my sword around and brought the fight back to him. After that, many more blows were landed. A few more drops of blood soaked into the trampoline fabric. We swung and parried as fast as our tired and frozen arms could manage. It was exhilarating. I knew that whatever I threw at him, he could take and then give back. I also knew that he wasn’t going to give up and hide behind our parents. Now we were ourselves and nothing more.
We finally went inside when the sun set and our numb fingers couldn’t hold the lightsabers anymore. Mom certainly didn’t understand why we did it, or why we dueled again many more times on my visits home, but we knew and that’s all that mattered.

13 February 2012

On Social Sciences


The Social Sciences are fighting a losing battle. The purpose of the entire department is to understand the complexity of mankind, which has proved to be a preposterous and impossible goal. The male members of society have sought to understand the other half of mankind for thousands of years, with about as many results as you can fit inside a jelly jar.
Nevertheless, this field of academia trudges on. And just when you thought they had finally trudged themselves into admitting that the trudging was all in vain, someone wrote an article on the nature of trudging and how it was final undeniable proof of the innate nature of capitalism. This of course sparked enough debate to walk the entire field of study down exactly thirteen rabbit trails and through a parking garage, right back to where they started.
Many have pondered how a being as simple and lethargic as a human can be so blasted difficult to predict. In order to answer this question, all the most esteemed authorities in Social Sciences were invited to a conference entitled: “How Trudging is actually a Marxist Idea.” The title was, of course, a ruse to ensure a good turnout.
The Sociologists insisted that humans are complex because the presence of other humans compounds their potential for complexity. In order to put a stop to this, they insisted that it would be best if humans were genetically engineered to have a second nose instead of a mouth, thus rendering it impossible for them to speak, form communities, and create behavior too complex for the social sciences to explain. The Genetic Engineers were, of course, not present at the conference, however they were soon sent a request for double-nosed humans. If any success was made, they did not (or could not) speak of it.
The Psychiatrists declared that all humans are actually terribly afraid of their own bodies. This makes them appear complicated because they spend all their time trying not to think about how scary it is to be themselves. They suggested that the best solution would be to force all humans to watch “Friday the 13th” at the age of three. Then people would spend the rest of their lives more terrified of everything external to their existence than they were of being themselves.
The Historians insisted that it is mankind’s ambition that makes him complex. Tens of thousands of years ago, Caveman frowned at his humble cave and longed for something more. He decided that day to dedicate his life (and the lives of his descendents) to inventing language, building civilization, developing theories of Reciprocity and killing other people with rocks. Thus, Caveman began his bloody campaign towards complexity and mastery of his environment. The Historians cared more about Herodotus’ left knee than they did about future or present events, so their solution only consisted of some scribbles of stick people with little spears in the margins of Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War.”
Nobody ever heard what Philosophers thought, because they were the only ones to realize that it was impossible for them to find the answer to such a question while being themselves human. They skipped the conference and used their stolen time to ponder the relationship between the physical and spiritual nature of the human experience. Onlookers claimed that they were actually dropping cherry bombs down manholes in quiet neighborhoods. Nobody really minded their absence because the philosophers asked frustrating questions and ate more than their share of the deviled eggs.
In reality, all of these theories were wrong. The real reason that humans are so complicated is a secret, but I can tell you this much: it has a lot less to do with people themselves and a lot more to do with deviled eggs.

28 October 2011

Letter on the Fridge in the Abandoned Bunker


Neighbor
I left, but don’t worry your little head
I’m safe now
We all are
Should I stay this way?
Fifty or forty meaningless years later
In some bunker
Closets full of food
Medicines spilling from the cabinet
What I am doing here?
If I’m meant to cling to dust?
Like you do
Like you always do
Dust only stains my hands
And when I loose everything
Falling through fingers
Air from my lungs
A raindrop on the street
What will you say?
How will you console me?
Stay safe. Keep them safe.
But what will I do?
What will they do?
We’ll all be dead
We’ll all be dead
How will you console us
From your coffin?