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March 29, 2008 at 6:39 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
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And why not, I’ll write another. Hey, so say hi to your boy. Do it, and do it more often than you prefer to, and do it even if the Nile shortens by a mile or two and do it even if the mountains collapse and the seas overflow and the sky rains rocks hitting us all in our respective blocks. Imagine the damage, and overcome it, and if you _are_ the damage, collateral or not, still say hi to your boy, and share the joy.

So my alcoholic antics are under control, either than or I’m in heavy denial. God knows, but it’d be nice if I could be certain about any damn thing some of the damn time. The time and thing being damned aside, certainty is not something I’m good at. Precision I’m getting better at, but oh oh oh pipes the piper.

That knotty bundle of nerves, that tension unremitting, that thing they called heart, what a thing to own. Mine aches from time to time, and the heart fibrillating amounts of caffeine only help to speed past the thing quicker. I dunno, I’ve never known what the point is, but work is a nice island, and a pleasant mirage. Motivation boils down to treating the mirage as something Real more often than not.

–2023
The children run wild in the fields. They are discovering the essence of life, and don’t feel an ounce of guilt, though they might feel a gram of some. And so they smile and they hold hands and jump and scream with their shrill screams and they seek one another, eyes closed counting down to the end of the clock, they are bound to find one another, and even if they can’t they will still try and even if it all goes nowhere they will persevere, so much for the uniqueness of the individual, it is as if in a moment they are all the same, a single team, a single motion, unified in that joy of emotion, that emotion of joy.

Fast forward some 15 years and they need help to get them to the same place. They need crutches, they need substances, they need bass, they need sex, they need attention, they need more than they can have, and they need it all the time, they need, they need, they need. And how much and by when, and with whom, they know. Why? God knows, I suspect. Fuck em all. I’m better, and I’ve been better, and I stay better. Even back when I was a bed wetter and couldn’t play in the fields because they beat me stiff and blue in school hallways and bathroom stalls, even back then I was better. So in my silent place, in my private chambers I forced my mind into decisions that I refuse to regret, and today I stand tall and proud in no need of need, in low spirits indeed but looking down on those poor fools, those silly mammals those high brow camels, those pathetic shambles that as children chimed so sweetly.

I’m your pusher man, I have what you need, so pay your bill.

– 2036

– 2048-
I need to speak and if I cannot then you will do it for me. I’ll handle your jaw with my hand, little puppet, speak and don’t forget to make those words leap out your throat as if they were meant, and make sure my time is not misspent, for suckers like you are cheap and time is money.

Aren’t you tired of the same things happening on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and then pretending that something new will occur on Thursday? Self delusion, sweeter than sweet lies, because even if they are meant it’s more expensive. What can I say? If anything it would probably have to be something that you couldn’t handle on a good day, and today is a horrible one, the type that occurs when you forget what you are attempting to achieve. And the necessary desire has been forgotten and stashed in some dark closet, locked and reopened by British excavators, newly visiting the lands north of the equator, stolen and resold, and by some odd means returning to their master after their massive untold struggles unfold, and even then you are unsure, so embrace this trust and talk as I thrust.

The history of this thing, my message, is long and needs no forgetting and even less regretting. If I could explain, then I would but since you re doing it for me, then you shall unfold it for me, and you will do just fine, you’ve been preparing for it for quite a while, since I’ve been your friend since before you knew my name I’ve been there since the beginning and I’ll make it to the end, you have nothing to fear you have no reason to bleed you can chime in as you need…

–2105

2125–
I’m making no sense and even if I made more sense on the average I would still have to make it dense, and would still have to prepare the fence for the shooting of the guards and the fence cannot face the slaughters And I cannot stand the tears and I cannot bear the years and maybe you shall share your expertise?
Bitch I make chump change out of fools like yourself and you are nothing but a tub of salt in an ocean of guilt, so where’s the boat? I sent out the SOS hours ago, and just a guess, its not here yet? Right, well, tell me please what am I to do? Even if it was up to me, which it never has been, the angels refuse to descend and help me transcend, and don’t act like I didn’t try, because I did and don’t call me bitter because I’m downright acidic, fuck a pH scale, I’ll make you choke on the inhale or on the exhale, quixotic tonic, got you thinking of turnstiles and styles erotic, like chocolate cake and that temptress topic, silly mammals listen to slivering snakes, like they don’t know no better…

So I want to arrive in the park in full gear prepared for the new year like Santa Claus, with the latest words from my lawyer, paying attention to the payment clause. I need the understanding that I’ve been demanding, It’s a contract and my head’s been expanding, don’t call it an ego, because that shit’s forbidden, and only sometimes forgiven, assuming you are clever and keep it hidden. So prepare your defense and make sure you are ready for the run and the jump above and across the fence, because if you can’t hack it, it’ll hack you, the devil’s in the detail and sometime now it’ll get you.
–2135

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Scene 6

March 29, 2008 at 4:03 pm (Drafts, Nonfiction)
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Back to the scene of the crime. Eh, who am I kidding, _crimes_ is more like it. Crimes against literacy in the free world, wherever that is. Everywhere, right? The young criminologist in us all wonders why? And more to the point, why now? Looking back is what kills you in these sorts of enterprises, I guess. I looked back. Bang. Dead. It happens just like that. Just like that… Peace, love and harmony to all those hippies in the hills of Humboldt. Trees and grass, the only industries out there. Lumber and marijuana, major building supply and major cash crop… 20 year old arts supply stores with decaying paper-machete walls still operating despite completely insufficient clientèle… And what clientèle there is, drives new black Mercedeses and rocks torn jeans and Def Leppard Tshirts with puke-stains– all at the same time… Peace, love and harmony keep on lowering IQ’s and making money. God bless the revolution, Marx would be oh so proud. The following is not exactly what I wanted to deliver but more will follow. Life goes on until it doesn’t.

–Scene 6.

He walks out of Sing Sing’s–worried. It’s probably 941 for all we know and Andre is in the deepest shit he’s been since that one time that he got arrested for protesting the war. Yes, deep is the river his horse must trot through. Andre is glad that his car is still where he left it. This city makes him extra suspicious. He presses the button on his car key, and *shoom* the thing is ready for forward or rear operations. Andre jumps right in and fires up the engine. Stutter, cough and we are off. Radio, cigarettes and window, check, safety belt, check, doors locked, check. Andre is also ready for operations. The current operation has him driving down the same road that he turned right on for about two miles, then getting on the I 673E and then getting back on the the way to work reentering, shamefaced if need be, the freeway he so carelessly abandoned.

Andre is looking back, his right hand resting on the back side of the passenger headrest going through that back-up motion. Having gone through this motion, Andre dodges some passers-by that he barely even notices and re-enters the raging river in a hurry, leaving some of yester-year’s papers and street trash airborne as he jets out. His unconscious mind, whatever that thing is, is about to push him into agreeing with some sweeping statements vis a vis Dom’s Soap when Andre’s better judgment tunes the radio to that station that’s all about killing people.

“Boom, boom, boom.”- goes the rowdy boy Bass, and Andre quickly lowers the volume.

Maybe now is the time for me to reveal something that I’ve been holding back up until this point. If my conscience would permit me, I’ll share with you the developments on L street. Perpendicular distance to L street is two miles north along our present bearing. The street Andre is on will lead him right on it, unless he does something stupid like turn left and take that shortcut he doesn’t yet know about. But then again, why would I tell you about L street if he did some thing like that? Maybe I should just talk about major economic developments in Poland 1910-1914 instead. Maybe the pope gets his kicks wearing a yarmulke at official functions. Don’t ask me, I don’t know. What I do know is that L street is hotter than usual. L street is usually hot enough to vaporize steel on a lunar night, but today, something has happened and hell itself is absolute zero in comparison. OK, so maybe I lie sometimes. But for this here second maybe you should believe take my word for it and accept that its not just the regulars out there this morning. In fact the regular cats have fled the corners and a strange quiet sweeps across the land. Something smells crooked. Water that is about to boil also shows signs of the impending change, bubbles start to rise as if from nowhere, the steam starts to rise and everything is getting primed for the change, but when it occurs it occurs all at once. The rats are hiding in their holes, the birds are flying low, the stray dogs are whimpering and looking for shelter, even the dope fiends have chosen other streets in search of product.

–

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Windy days.

March 16, 2008 at 11:04 am (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , ,

Currently Listening
Reachin’ (A New Refutation of Time and Space)
By Digable Planets

Scene 6 has not been worked on, since life has been intervening on my little fantasy world. Meanwhile, this intervention has not been enough to shake this little post’s persistence. Should I self-censor? I do. So I’m walking back from school the other day, am homeward bound and am getting drunk at various pitstops. A recently purchased and replaced mp3 player is pumping highly familiar and nonuniformly depressing songs into my hearing cavities. I’m feeling sick, lovesick I guess, assuming it wasn’t the liquor or the music, and decide to skip my house till I sober up. So I keep walking, passing by some buildings that are vaguely familiar to me by virtue of my irregular stumbling upon them in various states of drunken duress, one set particularly familiar due to a recent memory of a shooting around there.

A shooting, yes. Since you can’t just bring this sort of thing up without elaborating, I’ll mention that the pistol was (hopefully) a gas pistol (all bark no bite) and that I got out of there quickly either way. I made eye contact with the shooter, but was rather far either way so I didn’t bother following up with the police or anything. Plus, with police around here its more rather than less useless to follow up.

But back to me, myself and I. I’m walking, trying to keep from staggering, and the hours are starting to pass, and my whole body starts to get heavy, but the music is still pumping strong and there is still some of that energetic feeling to the liquor and so I just keep walking. I walk for a good four hours on fumes and mp3s. The scenes seen in that light were priceless. The invention of portable music devices has made it possible to live your life with a soundtrack and I respect that, deeply. Thank you to the ones who throughout the years have worked/profited from work in the field of portable music devices, encoding formats, etc. Since I still download music for free I guess my thanks to the artists in/out of the music industry should be directed as worked/didn’t profit. Most of you profited anyways so I’ll just thank you and you take it as you like it.
The scenes in that light were basically a kind of landscape portrait of erosion and attrition of the urban landscape. That and way too many white power slogans all over the place. What did those god damn fabled jew-masons do to you that you now have to break windows and act like a hooligan in the name of Beethoven and all that is good and German. I guess the national socialists are accepting slavs these days, white enough to be Aryan. I hear good things about the Asians, but they are still to be distrusted. Even black people are starting to be ok in certain more cultured nazi corners, but jews are rank evil. That’s Europe for you, eh. a freestyling for the good old days:

–1232 How can I unleash this torrent so that it pours out the way a lioness roars for her cubs, like the pipes burst on the street, like heads burst with my lips. It must be patience and perseverence, the passion of an army of spirits, souls and saviours, the simple people and their pastor’s sleeper cell. I suggest we conspire to bring about that time when there will be no more earth wind or fire. As for the water, let her flow, let her wash all that is around, for all years old. Let there be a new begininning, a new contract and a new upbringing, let it be free from sinning, and better than the last, the time is ripe for a fast, but not so fast, terror man, the time is not ready for your slight of hand, and it sure as hell is not the law of the land.
this isn’t real and you know it
love, my heart on the stove, sizzling like a shish-kebab
while you smile and you nod
to my words so innocently suggested
my thoughts so wickedly inflected
explain to me why should I bother
when this thing will go no farther
than where it started, in me myself and I
you surely know, for the barbecue smells good
and your senses sure cannot deceive you
mine don’t and yet I cannot see you
distortions elevate you to some place close to god
a living being, my place is somewhere else
out my chest comes out a childish sob
while I mask that so I come off tense
on this bed where I lie, cheat and rob
on this bed of earth I act a snob much like surely do you
if I could only see you too.
so much salt and grain, gets is precious rain
–1302

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Scene 5

March 12, 2008 at 7:46 pm (Drafts)

Andre puts the gas to the floor and slowly lets off the pedal s the Honda accelerates. He is in the lead of the one way pack. The bunch that is now behind him is headed towards the same place as him, downtown —–.

 

The city is most known for its terrific views of the —– river. The river itself is unfamilirar to Andre, but I’ll mention it anyway. Story has it, people’s bodies get dumped there. Story has it, that not only do they get dumped but that occasionally they get found and the sight isn’t pretty, Other wise, story wouldn’t have had it. So ugly, in fact, that it could make an SS officer wince, black blood and all.

Black blood, black river, black hole, black fortune… “Black is back I guess,” should have been Andre’s reaction, assuming that he had made the connection, which he clearly hadn’t. Instead he hit the gas like there is no tomorrow. When the light reflected and refracted off and through his front window it was hard for him to see the scene. The light would only occasionally do this and the rest of the timehe got to see open bars, closed stores, liquor stores, the well-guarded car dealerships, sleepy strip-clubs, alleys and the human fauna that runs, operates or requents these facilites, oh yeah, and a 50cent laundromat on the next corner.

 

Andre made this stop sign with no problems. He sees the pack approaching through his rear-view window. Figuring he’s lost and needs directions, Andre hits the right turn signal, and moves to the rightmost part of the road and starts looking for that opening that we all wait for—assuming we wish to act legally and all. The opening comes and Andre turns right and notices that thre’s a parkin lot that materializes in between Sing Sing’s Laundromat and the newly visible McDonalds. Noticing this, Andre pulls into it and parks next to a tattered minivan.

 

He reaches into the glove compartment. No gloves there, but a map is waiting. Andre turns off the radio, glances at the window of Sing Sing’s and returns back to the map only to notiice that —– isn’t present on the map.

“Great..”—Fat luck, eh.

Andre folds up the map and returns it back to the glove compartment. He inhales a big cigga-breath into his lungs and thinks about the situation. While he’s doing this a lound noise catches his attention.  A jeep rolls into the parking spot to the right of him.

Everything about these guys speaks of recklessness. First, no license plate. Second, the passenger right to the driver is smoking something that looks like marijuana. Third, children are in the back seat. Fourth—

“Is he looking at me?” thinks Andre. There’s something more. They _are_ looking at Andre. No stupid grins, just cocaine teeth and eyes, paranoid because of that third strike, and if it’s their first, who’s counting, right? Both youthes look at Andre, measure him up and within two seconds decide that it’s no big deal. The driver walks out and closes the door gently as a little bit of smoke escapes. He opens the trunk and grabs a laundy bag, and having closed that door, heads towards Sing Sing’s entrance. Andre looks back at the Jeep and notices the kids in the back again, playing with plastic dinasaurs as the smoke diffuses through the car. The driver and his passenger are these kid’s cousins, more responsible than their parents, cocaine and all. The passenger hits the weed one time and gives Andre a  bad look. Andre looks away and decides to get out of the car and into the laundromat so that he can get to work.

He gets out, locks the vehicle and looks a little paranoid as he walks the ten steps to the laundromat and enters this funny place. Creatures of the night need to wash their clothes just like anyone else, I guess, and Andre just happens to have found them all at once in this little alcove of soap and scum.

The main clerk, the one that handles the register and the coins, checks the machines, replaces the detergent in the dispeser, cleans the bathroom and signs whatever papers come in. She’s called Carla, or at least that is what the nametag says. The nametag on her shirt is facing us backwards, maybe so that she can read it and remind herself of what her slave name is. .. Chumps feed machines change.

 

He glances at their faces, faces occupied with thoughts: worried, blank, sleepy,  and suspicously alert. Fellows, lords and ladies lined up and tapping their feet, waiting for the machines to get their job done. There goes one now, headed out, his black bag filled with dried ones. Lucky bastard. Andre is almost at the counter and recognizes his friend from the parking lot. He wonders obsessively about whether he locked the car. The compulsion to look back is difficult to resist but Andre is too selfcounscious  to allow for this to happen. The other guy doesn’teven notice him and seems to be eyeing the somehwat overweight Mexican girl two rows down. Andre feels more relieved than disapointed and steps in front of Carla. Carla is also overweight, is chewing gum at the moment and is watching, quite intently some good ol’ TV. Had it been another day and time and she’d have rolls in her hair, would be smoking in her own establishment,  and would have given Andre a shitty look. In this day and age however, and certainly in this time, Carla gives no look whatsoever. Something about Jerry Springer has her entranced.

 

Andre is waiting politely and is even sort of getting into the show—transvestives and all. His ears are occupied, however his eyes are busy with some preconscious worry. They cruise around the facility in search of something

 

“9:40!” He screames under his breath, loud enough to gather some gazes from the people around him. The clock is in front of his swollen eyes and the tv suddenly goes silent.

“Do you need something?” Carla wonders.

 

“Yes ma’am. I actually need some directions” Pause “How do I get to I765, northbound, starting from here?”

Carla gives him her best “you youngster” look and then slowly explains how to get to the freeway.

“Ahh. Thanks a lot, seriously. You’re a life-saver, I’m real late for work.”

“No problem, hon.”

The t.v. starts to boom again, almost drowning the drolling sound of the machines.

Andre turns around with a semi-satisfied smile.

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In between some other things

March 12, 2008 at 6:12 pm (Nonfiction)

Scene 5 is more or less finished. So which one is it, more or less? At this point– “less,” and it will receive some editing before it arrives as a draft on this thing called blog. In the meantime– here is my latest drunken drivel:

“Business never personal”– that’s my motto, and as far as I know it isn’t under copyright protection. Protecting phrases, what a bunch of overgrown pussies…. And if it is…Here’s your 5 percent, bitch.

Why can’t a man live without humiliation? Why can’t his ego live up to its own impossible demands?A problem of definition, I guess. Life is what you make it, eh? Maybe all that special purpose was nothing but special predilections, and not the other way around… Why build pyramids in the desert, except for the sheer beauty? Beauty was truth, no? What is it today? Fucking runway models, coke whores, and I mean the soda pop company–copyrights and all.

So how do I let my friends into my double life? Jekyll and Hyde on the regular, no special hour, no special substance, just special thoughts, and a bizarre background to match the inconspicuous m.o. How do I do it, how do I break it to them? How? With a smile, with love, with some candy bars like some other m.o.? Hell no.

Honesty saves us all, no? Probably, but how would I know?

And the trumpet goes whooooo oo ooooo ooo oooo oo…

So I walk the streets, knife in hand, and wait for the right moment. Catch me in the classroom, taking studious notes, and making intelligent impressions, catch me teaching some fellow colleagues a lesson. Catch me in the act and the surpise awaits, catch me in the ocean, paddling, gulping some salt water and wondering why these these animals sting so much…

What a sad planet, it makes me wonder about the next 50 years, and that’s not a phrase free of associations… I love my mother, even my mother earth. I’m sorry for the nonsense and the lies. Please forgive me before I die, for my superstitions they get me feeling down, to the point where I might cry. Momma, even though I hope you never get to read this, if you do, do remember that you were on my mind the whole time. I could never thank you enough for what you have done for me.

Middle class boy, had what he needed. I could complain more, but a class consciousness of sorts quiets me. What right do I have to complain? I remember writing that very phrase to a high school english teacher of mine and getting the paper all questionmarked and shit… I never returned the paper. Wtf, you don’t understand? WHAT RIGHT DO I HAVE TO COMPLAIN? Zero.

Haha. Masochism resurgent, and all that good stuff.

Let me share a story. So I’m rolling these cheapo bugler cigs to kill off the hunger and I spot this fireman on strike. I eye him for a good two minutes while I smoke the thing and the dude clearly looks tired from holding that thing all day, and I walk over to him and ask him “what’s up.” Dude answers with some ideology and starts eying the rollie. I know where his real interest lies. Silly mammal. So he gets his sloppy tobacco, and believe it or not is grateful for it. Story has been shared. What about the time I slept in a bush while it was raining hard because I was too tired from walking all night? Some other time I guess. And what about homeless 1o1, you want a strap, homie? Maybe some other time. For whatever it’s worth, I was far freer then than I am now… That and I was making more money, heh.

Bizarre world.

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Scene 4

March 8, 2008 at 6:51 pm (Drafts)

The only things in life that matter are the quantifiable. The other ones are not really matter, at least not as I and Andre understand it. Vehicles matter on many levels–they are not only symbols of status but that status is attainable only through possession of the appropriate quantities. If those quantities are not material, then you clearly attach too much relevance to those hard, cold or hot factual variables of physics and chemistry. What is effective is actual and what is actual is factual. Whether its a soft or hard fact is up to the individual to decide. I guess.

Right this moment the window of opportunity opens and Andre turns left, turn signal and all. The homeless grit their teeth, scratch wounds, stink up squeaking wheelchairs, push carts or sleep in drug comas, drenched in the fluids of the night-sticking to the concrete and cardboard. Exhaust comes out of the Honda’s tailpipe. Andre got to owning this heap after his first real job started paying. Prior to this, he was privy to a nice middle-class vehicle, the family sedan, a far superior beauty. Poor, poor Andre, living a far superior life.

He gladly admits to this as the axle makes that creaking sound that he’s been wondering about for so long. The buildings that surround him in _this_ reality remind him of nothing, except Hollywood depictions. Life is only somewhat imitating art. Chills of fear run up his spine as he goes deeper down this street. The buildings seem surrounded by a halo-like optical effect, in Andre’s eyes. His speed is slightly higher than what he would have been doing had he simply gone down the freeway but considering the angle that he’s taken in the maze, he’s headed off track and making far worse time as it is.

The sights, sounds, smells and situations of the street are either present, vanishing or developing as the night’s fractured quiet turns to constant buzz, the dim light turns to murderous swelter and the struggle continues.

“How logical.” Andre’s fingers feel dangerously warm. He jettisons his cigarette on the warming street, dusts the ash off his shirt.

The radio is gently pressed back on, the fingers–distracted, fumble at first. Andre tries to get his mood back to normal. Strangely, the stations he usually catches cannot be reached. So naked now.

“No laws in this urban decay,” thinks Andre. Apparently not even those of PHYSICS. Picture our queen, robed, crowned, flaky, forever frozen, and now freed of her dignity. I lie occasionally, as you might have noticed.

Andre is trying to figure out whether he prefers loud pseudo-fascist rants coming out of a blue or red diaper station or whether he wants to pump music for present, past or future prison dwellers. A third option materializes and the choice is made, the ALLTraffic traffic report. Boring but safe. Oh, how the times change, ey Andre?

“The congestion of the I-765 northbound has cleared. Southbound is experiencing congestion. Don’t forget to visit SafeLands superstore for all your Sally’s Salmon needs.”

“Congestion… they talk about it like its a disease or something.” Andre has heard the joke before, and is in no mood. He rolls up his window, elbow, fist or finger safely tucked into the cocoon. He starts to notice a bit too intensely and his reactions get to be a bit mechanical and energized by another chemical, that adrenaline cocktail of nervousness. Fight or flight, right. Battle stations ready, our courageous revolutionary is loo–

“Where is the fucking freeway?!” his free foot starts tapping. He’s been looking for it for some minutes now. He looks for his cigarettes, but physics is acting up in this car as well. Magic cigarettes in a magic land.

“STOP” says the sign. And he barely manages to, tires screech, bad looks are launched. The cigarettes appear from under the seat. Andre bends to pick them up, entering the area below the light. He lights one as he gets up. A sewer is steaming in the right corner of his field of view. From behind it people emerge, zombies from the underground railroad station, emerging as if from nowhere. Call it subway if you must, and towards freedom, as if work is a right given freely. They cross the street in front of Andre’s protruding vehicle, passing him with derision. He attempts to back up, only to realize that some intimidating-looking black dude behind him has pulled up real close to his bumper and is chewing on gum with his practiced stare on meaner-than-you.

“Who is your enemy?” –is Andre’s SUBCONSCIOUS question, “God damn it! Nine twenty.” is his verbal mumbling.
“Weather for today is partially sunny, partially cloudy, with some chance of rain and some possibility of lightning and …” drolls the radio.

–>scene five later

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0.1 Scene 3

March 8, 2008 at 10:15 am (Drafts)

Scene 3
The exit lane is a lonely, wid swept sight to witness. Andre is another sight to witness, entirely reckless. His tries screech as slides through three and barely makes two out of the five turns that, among other things, were meant to slow him down. His heart is still pumping wild but his mind, that wondrous thing, was not in the same situation. The anger, that rebel, is now fearing his assassination, and naturally tense is the situation.

“Where the fuck am I?” Haha…

Andrew Krieg, you don’t know a damn thing, do you?

“Ah, shit.” Thoughts went off, thinking that maybe he should just get right back on the freeway. The rebels are getting too old, doubtlessly thinking about children. RUNNING OUT OF CHEMICALS… Rebels they never listen, and it isn’t like you hadn’t repeated if before.

Hey, as long as you are taking up a new existence, Andre, why not do it all at once, why not change it all? Fuck the herd, man. You _are_ a man, right?

And what a man at that. You saw past the bullshit. You see miles down the road. Your capabilities are far beyond those of the average sucker. You are man, you are blessed with wisdom, you are the precious percentage, the cream of the crop, the totp of the top. The one God’s own special choice. And it anin’y likeyou haven’t thought about it before. So naturally, you have a choice to make now don’t you?

Hard right turn, no turn signal. The guillotine falls. Dissenters vanish, extreme prejudice is the choice.

“I made a strong statement, did I not? I mean, those people really saw that. that was me, and not some other fool.” That was you indeed.

These streets are strange and are strange because they are different. Different than the assumed average. The other half, more like the other 80% man. Cream of the crop indeed.

Andfrew looks up at the sky and witnesses nothing but nature’s profundity. In the clouds he bears witness to heaven’s grandness much like the people of those ages of priests and prophets now long past dead and immortal. A choir of angels sings and the sun peaks behind those nebulous apparitions. Flowers bloom on the treetops, at least potentially. Moving at far reduced speeds, Andre is witnessing the reality he often ignores, now in the throat, heading towards the belly of the beast.

The cigarette has burned to the butt and Andre hasn’t taken a puff on it ever since he lighted it. Gray is the color of the morning. trash heeps everywhere, people walking– with distrust. Andre wakes up.

Yet another revolution is in the air, mama don’t despair.

The light dims as the buildings increase in size, and Andre stops at a stoplight. Industry, now miniature, exported and still is the cure. The angels are singing out of tune. People of all backgrounds, ruled by their need for a dollar are heading to work. Carpenter, steelworker, cashier, electrical engineer, the day is Tuesday, and they all know the deal.

Andre checks his watch, the time is 0901 o’clock and he is nowhere near where he needs to be. Counter-revolutionaries storm the palace, that greedy fortune, that hubris–unforgiving, it now arrives at its natural end. And now what, Andre?

“Where the fuck am I?” Indeed, Andre.

The light turns green and Andre creeps up, looking to turn left out the intersection, waiting for the other side to pass. Faces full of emotion reside inside that glass on wheels. Subdued emotion, the changes occurring in their lives pile into undermanaged heaps. White hair, make-up covered messes, pockmarked faces, lip-biting, nail-chewing, cool cats and guys all about their business, there isn’t much to witness…

“Damn it. There isn’t much time left.” Indeed, Andre. Make your choices wisely folks.

–>>end scene 3
<<–await scene 4

_Something other-than:_
making thoughts matter,
said nothing when the glass shatter’d
now they came for my neighbors
now they came for my papers
now they askin questions
now they acting reckless
tell what do I say, man?
tell me what to sell, man?
I need peace, and protection from one.

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Scene 2

March 6, 2008 at 8:09 pm (Drafts)
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Scene two
–
Andre is thoroughly ticked, stewing, if we are to be on point. He turns the radio off as violently as a radio can be turned off, employing that almost instantaneous flick of a thumb–showing it who pays the insurance.

It doesn’t take particularly long for the calm before to turn into the storm. If you were to clock it, the salient portion could probably fit in a microsecond. Andre felt it building up all morning. He’d always thought about it, and when asked to vote, voted “nay.” Today that microsecond was being overcome by other sentiments. Rebels caught his consciousness unprepared. Rebels inside his mind were making increasingly convincing points. “Just do it man.” “Nah, man, it wouldn’t be right.” “Fuck it. Plus, you _would_ be late. And you know Gina wouldn’t like that.” “Fuck it, indeed. But nah, man.” The daily street agitation had made its inroads in Andre’s mind. CHEMICALS ASSOCIATED WITH ANGER started flooding his bloodstream and lodging themselves in his muscles and mind, working their precious magic. Nay.

“No, no, no, no.” No?

“AH FUCK.” That’s right.

Hard right turn, no turn signal. Shocked faces and angry thoughts, Andre is off.

“I’m out, hahahaha.”- a smile accents the mania.

The comrades of the commute are experiencing panic. The herd feels threatened. Andre is driving recklessly. He wants out of this slow pace.

“Eat shit, fuckers!!@”

He is no longer concerned with making it on time. He just wants out. This DAILY grind has him bugging. Why can’t things go his way, just once? I don’t know. Do you? Do you, you POSSIBLE INFORMANT?

“Every fucking day, every fucking day! Build another lane or two hundred, you corrupt fucks. I PAY TAXES, you corrupt fucks.” Those politicians, those fascists, those animals, less than human, they will pay, wont they, Andre?

“Damn right.” Andre concurs. The engine revs. Sweat builds up on Andre’s forehead. The elbow is no longer sticking out. His FIST is out. All that is missing is a finger.

The Honda stays within the lane, barelly. It looks like a oxygen atom in a compacting chamber, bouncing off the walls.

Andre switches lanes again. He looks like a nutcase to even the sleepiest of morning eyes. The road gets a gift of hot rubber. Cops drink coffee just miles away. Andre is feeling like a little god, protected by all that glass and steel and bone and thoughts. Something is lifting off his chest. Adre feels drunk. Its as if he has arrived at the point of union with his destiny and even if that isn’t the case, fear is no issue. Fuck em.

Rightmost lane, the exit approaches–rapidly. Or is it that the car approaches? Choose a frame of reference, buddy. All I know is that Andre’s must be the moon, since these things called rules of conduct seem so little and trite. Responsible Rebeccas and Serious Sam’s out there concentrate on the back bumper of their fellow commuter vehicle.
“Bunch of horses with blinders…” Don’t forget single track minds, Andre.

Andre misses the exit, but before the point of failed opportunity materializes, he circumvents its necessity.

Hard right turn, no turn signal. Heart palpitations and cold sweats, Andre has logged off and jets into the real world.

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Things that have been said.

March 5, 2008 at 7:22 pm (Drafts, Freestylings, Nonfiction)

It has been said that I write too much for the reader to cope with. I have taken it upon myself to assume that I should therefore write more. It has been suggested that I compose my thoughts more, possibly into some sort of short story. I figure I already include a fictional section in each of my posts, so I might as well compose my otherwise as freely-as-possible-associated thoughts.(at least from time to time) Before I get to the fictional, however, I’ll mention some of the happenings in my internal and external life in as cryptic a manner as possible.(if only to keep to the requirements of minimal online anonymity)

I’ve had this monologue running through my head the whole day. I revisited it at different times, and in different moods, simply to experiment with how it would sound. Its audience is a special torturer of mine, a colleague of mine I see on the daily. Its narrator is the almighty and quite sickly I. Its subject is the disease that links us. I will not reproduce the monologue since you, generally speaking at least, are not the audience. I will share a recurring theme, however.

The painfully beautiful.

Picture eyes. Rather dark ones, shades of brown, if you are still picturing. Picture them however you prefer to imagine your eyes, with one requirement. Make them awfully striking. And yes, I mean awfully. Evade all cliches, though you could certainly apply most of them with the appropriate intent, evade them nonetheless because they are not what you feel as you look into these curious things. I don’t really know about you, but I feel that curious feeling of wretched pain coupled with a wantless need. One does not outshine the other, and neither outshine the eyes themselves. Lively things, those eyes. Maybe they should be part of a face. Maybe not. I wonder what causes the fixation. I call it a disease, and innapropriate attraction is its main symptom. More than distracting when trying to act normal, whatever that means.

And here I was–planning, time-managing and being a responsible citizen. This is just two weeks ago, and I thought that I had finally gotten it all collected and then this damn disease hits me. Mission impossible, indeed.

Pathetic. A world of choice, and I chose the one that will get me sick. Fucking masochist. Enough of that.

Short Story-Draft

Scene 1- The Traffic Jam
–
The day is running along and Andre is late for fork. Stuck in traffic, Andre is shifting between radio stations nervously, his upper teeth are pinching against his lips in between his lower teeth, and his eyes are desperately searching for a way out of this slow death. The seeking program on the radio finally locates a station that he can stand. The freeway is multiple hundreds of miles of concrete, and in Andre’s section consists of a five lanes that at night allow street racers to perform daring maneuvers to the sound of blasting techno music. Andre’s gaze has turned towards tire marks, the remains of some vicious race undoubtedly, and his body is momentarily feeling the rhythm of the funk station. The mirrors vibrate off of the baseline. Andre rolls down his window. He extends his elbow out and so announces his manhood, which signal makes the airflow into the car approved, but his situation no better. Sweat rolls down his temple. His fingers start tapping out of tune.

“Why the fuck does everyone have to pile on the same damn road at the same f——- time. F—, f— f—…. It’s the third time… This just is _not_ going to look good. F—”

Andre lowers the volume and lights his cigarette as the commercials roll. His free foot starts tapping, and he signals to switch lanes. He does so swiftly, slightly cutting off a sleepy engineer. He presses the gas. Then he stops. He presses the gas, and then slows down. Then he stops. And he presses the gas. And then he speeds up, and then he stops. And then he waits.

“What about salmon, mommy? Can’t we get more salmon!? Its so rich in –” Asks little Johny, the soccer champion on KXYZ, “The Chamelion!” before Andre cuts him off with his seek button.

The lane that he had just been in speeds up.

Part 2– later.
–

15 min freestyle:
–2115
The lion’s fur is waving in the air. The wind seperate each individual hair and gives it life. THe lion stands erect and proudly gazes, chest forward, into the great pasture. The sun is setting, and the lion’s retina is changing its size. The night is a time much awaited. All day spent lying down lazily and thinking of nothing special, just observing the scene. The wind signals change, and the fur does its duty.
–2122

Too tired to continue, sorry. Turned out quite short this time.

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The daily times.

March 3, 2008 at 5:39 pm (Freestylings)

Perfect timing. Bell rings, I kick out the salesman, without even busting a sweat. In between jerking it and playing the new gta, I ruin this man’s carefully arranged face. Fuck a salesman, and his family, and his sister, and his baby cousin. Fuck em all. I have needs to attend to. Selfishness to the maximum.

Interlude aside… People dying, burning up in trains, national heroes being revived through song and praise. Google it, if you need to. Enough references here to make out what I’m saying. The national thinking, somewhere between depressed and pious. My state- drunk, as per usual.

So, mirror, mirror on the wall, tell me when shall I fall. Mind you, done it before. What has made me into a boorish whore? Tell me. Speak, you shiny glass, you bounty of hermetic mysteries. Speak.

You cannot, as I suspected. Inanimate things, so limited. Pathetic functions, so bounded, while my people, all (my) people, so unbounded.

Since you cannot speak, I’ll speak through you, for you–my reflector, call you blog, call you spectrum of choice, colorful and full of voice, microphone and speaker for the internal feeling, the internal vision, the magical eye, the sixth sense, intuition in the Descartian field, geometrical ideal of the most manic sort, that is you, my irritable chore.

My mind is still calculating under heavy fire, will I panic, will I flee, will I just sit here and wetten, be it from urine, blood or sweating? I guess it’s the timeless choice of animal and man alike… fight or flight, fuck or shy, lead or cry, do it under the divine eye. No pressure, just choices to be made, and they are free, as we are so often to be reminded. Call me cynical, call me suicidal.

So the boat ships out and I wave to the public, the mist rolls in and they vanish. Before I knew, and before you suspected–the thunder rolls down and the skies are setting. My thoughts turn towards my mother– dying. So I stroll down in the rain, the floors ‘a quakin’, to my cabin, crying and plans ‘a making. So I sit upon my bench of wood, as my shipmates light the cannabis and I think to myself in this foamy water, will I slip, will I bother… So many things to be arranged, so many things to be done before a man is made. How many roads, right. How many rows, I say, in the galley slave alley, I say. Speak, and bear witness, while I walk through the valley of the deserted with the quickness. Explain to me the reason behind this madness, the whole world speaks of violence and nobody even flinches, tough motherfuckers and ignorant bastards alike, they pretend and they’re bright. Either you die under your own word, or you profit and still burn. So in this cabin, and in this smoke, I choose to not take that toke, and instead waft throughout the mist taking no breaths, while the police starts ringing their alarms about the sess.

Why? Why? Why?… my thoughts till I die.

–
Something of a spontaneous freestyle I guess. No minutes clocked on that one. I got no time to rhyme. I speak the truth.

Remember those movies where the aliens learned english from watching Schwarzenegger flicks, well, I’m doing the same, except with hip hop. Go figure…go figure [echo, echo, echo]

Childhood memories, still running through my head. Little sir echo, raising his head out the swamp, singing a little british tune in the voice of my mother, singing a school-age rhyme. Strange life of change, be it in kilometers or miles, I still count in hours and particularly in seconds. Tick. Tock. They used to call me Dr. Spock. Can I blame em? No time to tame ‘em. Management skills, spell it with a z. Skillz needed to be real, in this field of transactions, needed to get some action, needed for all that is valued, in this society of ours, making change, and racking up the percentages, the points, the shit I abhor, my valued labour. I’m here to sell my self, even though my cv be puny. And what about yours? That size of your dick I adore…

Like romans, raised for battle, equipped with actuaries and lawyers not gladiuses or lyres, our bodies look like pussies, to our much respected predecessors and companions, the ones who steer these Roman galleys, the ones who bleed and don’t even move a lip. Their faces set on stone, their eyes don’t roam, just focus and unfocus, on a point, and on its locus, ready for war, simply divine, praying to the one on the chariot of fire, red is his favorite color, and if you were greek, you’d play the lyre. Raised like ‘em, but learned nothing. Books stacked and ready, yet the eyegaze stays tuned to the tube on steady. Explain to me the fixation, I know you suspect something as the problem, starts with b and ends with read, and some c and ircuses.

Primary orality, what a banality, switch to that which is expected, remind youself of the things respected by your peers, or the ones in your demographic, same thing really, ingore the mental dissonance, or traffic of the train of thought, that type of thing leaves you quite distrought, as it should and as I suspect it would once you discovered the TRUTH, rining from the mountaintops with a voice of shaking thunder, quite the wonder. Explain to me why its not a distraction, why its nothing more than a careful predilection towards a certain breed of heavenly inflection in the tone of voice of the warrior, the type of thing for the clairvoyant on the sneak tip, what a slave ship…

Our bodies stacked by the dozens, racked by chains, our shit smeared on walls, the water yes it falls in controlled quantities from metal spoons and our minds are reduced to the level of mental stools. Fuck and forget about it, yet we cry about it, our souls were meant for more and we did nothing about it, just signed the waiver and waved our goodbye’s as the ship set out to the land so so far. Ah yes. Oh no.

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