Tuesday, December 7, 2010

.

I was flustered,
Isolated in ignorance
To muster vigilance
Glancing to and fro,
Through audience
Only to see where my new found feeling
Was alone,
My person struck with thunder’s grace,
In public
Of all place,
For such an epiphany
To whack me
In the nose,

From toes to fingers
A surge of fresh born sensation lingered
That made clear what I know,

I was just one of
A mere hundred,
The family member
To the presenter,
But no one knew,
Front and center
Was the leading member
My mother,
Her voice that shook with thunder but
Not with roaring sound,
Like gentle rain to mist,
With undisturbed silence,

Episodic in story,
Elaborate in path
In which she took,
From Ritz to rubble
Impact was made,
Yet, subtle
But,
Vital
To me.

A person who embodied everything
I was meant to be
Lived with me,
Better yet, gave unquestioning
Birth to me,
Since a babe, I was
Unknowingly meld
Into the person I thought I
Myself made,
In unconscious drift,
Guided
On my way,

Love what you do,
An artist’s motto,
My motto,
Of the prosperity
I imagine I’d be
Was there,
Smiling in front of me,

I left that place
Vibrant with pride,
For being in relation to success
Not pathetic unrest,
Whom I felt was washed out with grey rotten stress
Of hours assumed toiled away
In play
Of art,

Little did I know
Then was when
I would discover,

I idolize my mother.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

WhatsTheDifference


Normalcy, simplicity, insanity,
What’s the difference?
Who are you to be you?
Why am I defied the right to be whom I be?
Is there a difference?
I see you
You see the same,
There is judgmental hypocrisy,
This isn’t some hierarchy
Where you can pick and chose through blame,
There’s no difference
Between how one should be perceived
Only minor discrepancies.

Truth does not point,
Tell me the difference between you and me,
When I look at you I see I
When I think who I is
I know,
Not a difference between us and we,
You dress elegant and intelligent
I clothe to represent my me,

Never will it be
Forgotten the everything you’ve achieved,
But don’t act,
Giving orders to demands of lunacy,
Preaching nonsense that fuels
Rules, conscious and ego
That is not you,
Just you trying to be what has jaded society,
Do not stand thinking you’re above the
Monopoly of manipulation, fornication, tragedy, and catastrophe,
No one is taller than no man
Woman or anybody,
What’s the difference?
You are identical to me
Only different in unique personality.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Ridiculous OvertheTop Metaphore Story


It is unbearable feeling as if you’ve been awaken from a deep narcotic slumber. Drifting off in a sleep-like state while your surroundings continue to move around you. No longer can I differentiate from consciousness and dream. I stand in front of my dingy bathroom mirror starring at my toothbrush. I watch my own hands groom my teeth without even processing the thought to do so. My feet move left and right on the same track each day carrying me to my habitual destination. My only jolt back to reality is the ever so constant nudge of a fellow inmate or the yelling howl of the Warden telling me what to do, how to live. I know what my day will contain in its empty bowels before I have even experienced it. It is all the same, all torture.
            My habitual track takes me from place to place. Each place I enter I feel mindless. Is it odd that I feel most alive when behind the grey and black bars of my room in deep sleep? The first destination of my imprisoning cycle is the showers, an uncomfortable white tiled room of pain. White is usually associated with innocence, which I find oddly peculiar. The rooms I despise most in this place seem to be the rooms that are blinded in searing white. The Warden must have it this way out of pure cynical irony. To shower or not to shower is the most problematic dilemma I face in my “life”. I know if I do not I will be faced with further discomfort, but what is that discomfort really. I always wonder if it matters whether I am comfortable or not. Will that comfort change my experience for the better? Regardless of the controversy I face, I step in the thirty-second scalding, hot torrent of water, out of fear that I might disrupt my always-persistent routine. The water hose sprays you as if it were a guard executing you behind a shed. The high-powered water slams into your worn skin like a barrage of stones. I spend that thirty seconds praying. Praying that this is another narcotic slip out of consciousness. When the barrage of water ends I am reminded I am still here, and without fail my legs continue on their left, right track to my next destination. I approach my tear stained body suit that the Warden politely labels our “uniform”. I take another look in the mirror and see myself fully dressed in the clothing. Each time I feel confused. Did I dress myself just then? Or was I already dressed?
            It continues. I make my way through the yard to the dimly lit cafeteria that smells of foul molded morsels. Here is where I am greeted by a blurry stampede of uniformed people floating by me, all in the same bottomless situation as I. They flow by, so absorbed in themselves, I question whether they exist. Could I just be in another dream? For all I know I am sitting in my kitchen cooking a meal of eggs and toast. However there is not even the slightest trail of the scent of fresh homemade cooking. The air of the cafeteria is baked with a burning vulgar aroma that cannot even be put into words. Is there some way to tell if what I see is actuality? The planes of reality and imagination meld into one.
            I grab my meal of burnt meat and goo from the same large, sweaty, hair covered man that I do every morning. He thrusts the food on my plate without even the slightest hint of eye contact. His eyes stare into a void of nothingness, like a machine that scoops out meal after meal, day after day. I enter the line of uniformed people heading out the exit. It is like pulling into a traffic frenzy on the highway. All you can do is twiddle your thumbs until you get to the exit where you are greeted by your next destination. Here I sit in my usual seat and surround myself with the same usual three inmates. We sit silent; clawing at our scrap food until the Wardens droning voice is projected on the loud speaker. His voice makes me want to quit, to stab a fork through my heart, neck, and eye until I am rewarded with death. All just to escape from his monotonous bullshit I am forced to hear daily. I refrain from my suicide knowing that eventually I will be free, that I one day can have my own life. It would not be worth turning off my movie before it is finished and end all the “good” of my future. After the Warden is done, the four of us briefly interrupt eating to state how long until our liberation.
“One week left.”
We announce the words in harmony and do not express another sentence for the entirety of the meal. Our minds are focused on the end of the day where we can be pleased once again with a drug-like induced sleep.
            Shoulders knock and throw my body, awakening me from my hazy dream of real food laid out perfectly across my dining table. Uniformed people surround me from every angle – I am in the stampede. I find myself in the rush of the cafeteria. It continues. I receive the same burnt meat and goo before I re-enter the uniformed riot to the exit. Next thing I know I am in the same usual seat with the same usual inmates.
“One week left.”
The words drop out of my mouth without thought. My mind rapidly wanders, hasn’t this already happened? Was my life repeating or has the morning passed and this is lunch? The similarities between the days make it seems as if you are living through a drug sequence. It was impossible to decipher time – it didn’t exist. The thought of one week baffled me. What does a week mean anyway? A week could be seven days or one. Each is filled with the same happenings and minutes. How does one decipher between the seconds and hours.
            A familiar large, sweaty, hair covered man drops burnt meat and goo on my plate. I realize my shoulder is throbbing with a bruised pain. My eyes dart around the area. The legs of my body are taking me to my seat where my three inmates wait. Again, this place. Wasn’t I just here? I feel that I have never left, but it is dark outside now. Last I knew it was day. Everything looks unchanged though. My mouth reacts on its own, almost like it is on a timer to speak.
“One week left.”
Could it still be the same day? In my mind I’ve dreamed months away. I look down at my plate and my meal has already been devoured. How is it that I am functioning and acting without even realizing? Did I eat it amongst the silence and not acknowledge it?
            It continues. Retracing my previous steps across the yard I return to my room of grey and black bars. My head falls against the rough pillow that stinks of a dank musk. My eyes only close for a minute, but my mind is already drowning in dreams. Music is gently playing in the background of my wooded backyard. My dog is barking and chasing sticks while I laugh, feeling the breeze of the wind on my ears. The smell of real food returns to me; cheesy scrambled eggs along with rich blackberry jammed sourdough. That unbelievable feeling of being wrapped in your own bed sheets engulfs me. And then I am disturbed.
            The entrance of my inmate stirs me out of the only time of the day I look forward to. I try to return to that beautiful, empowering, friendly state, but it runs from me. The realities of the Warden, work, and routine all slip into my head, haunting and scaring my sleep away. I try to tell myself that this is all a lie, that I am simply unconscious. The haunting thoughts trickle from my body. The drug induced sleep pulls on my eyebrows throwing me into my deep narcotic slumber I love so much. It is in that slumber that I cannot be forced to eat burnt meat, be beaten, be victimized by the endless echo of meaninglessness. It is ironic though that my drug-enlaced drowsiness is what inevitably defines the repetition of my life.
            My eyes sluggishly crack open. Crushing painful water is blasting my body in a blinding white tiled room. Hasn’t this happened already? Where did my dream disappear to?
When is this…?








Fred. I'm a douche. My apologies.

Thursday, November 4, 2010



Sunday, October 3, 2010

Peter


Life locked up in a box seems such a distant memory to me now. At first I thought I was fortunate to be put behind bars. Well when you go from my original situation, could you blame me? My memory of it all is a little hazy, but I know the gist of it. My name is Peter, I know it’s an odd name for someone of my being, but like in most cases I didn’t chose it. About four years ago I was roaming the streets of New York City. How I ended up in Connecticut is odd, but it will all be explained. When fending for myself in New York I had been extremely troubled. There wasn’t a man on the planet that I trusted and not a thing I wasn’t skeptical of. This was a point of my life where I was incredibly violent and agitated. The slightest thing would set me off, I was rabid. My senses were keen and I was somewhat healthy besides being slightly under fed. To survive I knew that I had to protect myself by what ever means possible. The beginning months were fairly easy, lonely, but easy. I didn’t have a real family in the beginning. It was difficult you could say. I managed. When winter came around is when it began to become too much. The cold was terrible and the winds made you freeze in place. There were days after days where you didn’t get a break from the shivers. A part of my existence I wish I could leave out. However without it I wouldn’t be where I am today.
            Constant icey breeze with wet, white slosh on the ground one hundred percent of the time. Not a warm spot in the city existed. Every piece of known territory I could find I would have to defend to the death. The other strays were driven to craze too. My daily routine was strict and gruesome. Several times a week I’d go down to the deli where the shopkeeper was kind enough to spare a couple of left over servings. I would meet him in the back where he would feed me old slices of turkey and ham. It wasn’t much but they tasted fine and got me through the winter. Thinking of it now, I owe my life to that man. Without him I don’t think I would be alive today. After my trips to the deli I would stalk my part of the street. I claimed a narrow road where cars only went one way down. It wasn’t very busy, a good place to live. If anyone came even near I would make sure they felt unwelcome. I had been paranoid of everyone and everything. It wasn’t the hunger that bothered me or even the cold. It was surviving alone.
            He wouldn’t leave. I showed to him that he was blatantly trespassing. It was clear that I was hostile. He was much larger than I. A mouth filled with tangled teeth and drool. Drooping bloodshot eyes that matched his drooping face. What stood before me was no friend. Regardless of his appearance I was not worried. I was hungry, but not weak. He attacked, bellowing towards me as if I was going to just sit there and let him maul my body to pieces. I was being underestimated as usual. I leaped out of his path and struck his side. Standing on top of him with my nails drawing his blood as they dug into his neck made him realize he had picked the wrong fight. The two of us growled and grunted, trying to prove who was superior I guess. He desperately threw himself at me, but I knew he wasn’t going anywhere. I changed my hold on his neck from nails to teeth. Like I said, I had to defend to the death. Suddenly two burly hands reached around my stomach and gripped tight. They ripped me off the intruder and carried him in the opposite direction. The hands hauled me in the air into the back of a van and drove off. He was dead.
            “Peter…” I woke up to two people talking about me. “He seems to be one year of age.”
“Breed?”
“He is definitely a mutt. I would say a pit-bull-hound mix.”
They had me locked in a crate. Originally I was livid with the humans locking dogs up like that. Until I realized they were helping us. That realization didn’t come for a while however. The pound was made of three major sections. The front was the entrance where people came to sign papers and set up visits. This room consisted of several couches and a reception desk. The people would spend the majority of their days in this room. Here they could squawk at each other and drink brown liquid out of pots and mugs. Four times a day a few people would wander into the facilities second section that was behind the receptionists’ desk. This is where they kept us, the dogs. It was called “the cells”. The people would examine us and feed us a meal a day. For months I would not let them examine me without showing some sort of resistance. That hostility could only last so long however. Soon it became too much of an effort. I slowly made the decision to greet people with a sort of decency. When they took me to the last section that was called the yard I would no longer be defiant. Upon arrival to the pound I had gone out of control when let out into the yard. Sprinting back and forth across the field, making it impossible for them to catch me. If they neared I would lunge and bite. A man had once torn at my tail, sending me plummeting to the ground. He wrenched my mouth shut with his boney fingers. His grip pulled out my whiskers. He dragged me into my crate by the neck being violent and brutal. My next acquaintance with this man did not go the same way. I attacked him where he was weakest. The humans are all tough and mighty until you put them in their place. As he tore at my tail, I tore at his. The only difference is mine isn’t located in my crotch. His shriek was piercing; I didn’t stop and continued to tare. A piece of him belonged to me by the time I was pulled off. Most of them quickly learned to stay back and left me on my own after that. To take me back to my crate they would harness me with a spiked collar and muzzle so that the same incident didn’t repeat itself. Like I said though, that phase of mine passed eventually. After a while socializing with the others began to become something I actually looked forward to. I’d perform the tricks people wanted me to do and even let them teach me a few. Sit, roll, lie down were simple, but fairly quickly I learned to flip, handshake, and dance. People started to warm up to me. I think I may have even won the favorite from a few. That doesn’t mean I would submit fully to them however. They no longer required putting me in a muzzle and collar just to get me inside, but I still liked to make it a difficult task for them to get me to behave.
            Soon enough I was starting to be brought out of the pound. They took me to places they called “fairs” along with some other dogs I lived with. At the time I knew you were fortunate to be able to leave, but hadn’t figured out why. My first fair was the hardest. Quickly I understood their purpose though; fairs were meant for outsiders to be able to examine us in order for adoption. At the pound the same adoption process occurred, however it was only occasional. Usually when a visitor came in they already had a dog in mind. So rather than having individual visits at the pound, they could show us off to the masses at fairs. It hit me that I here I could actually have a chance of being removed from the pound and put into a home, a family. The first time I witnessed an adoption was difficult to handle I guess. It was at the pound and I couldn’t get over that fact that I was being left behind while others were being saved. The “funny” thing to me was that most of the dogs in the pound were there because they had been born there. None of them had to experience what I had to, yet they all were being saved. So when I was introduced the first time to a group of people at the fair I was hysteric. The urge to bounce all over them and lick was uncontrollable. They weren’t very happy at the sight of me. I think the woman said I was too aggressive to control, that no one wants a mutt who jumps. The rest of the groups that saw me had the same reaction as the first. The day went on like that and soon the fair had passed. I was escorted back into the van and off I went, returning to the facility. Abandoned again.
            I felt optimistic about the second fair, but there was a still that “what if it happens again” lump stuck in the bottom of my stomach. The person I was assigned to as a fair guide was unusually nice. She had taken me for a long run around the park before hand. I could tell I needed it since I had so much cooped up energy from being locked in a small box of bars for so long. She also had these crunchy chicken flavored snacks that I’d get tossed to me periodically. The treats gave me the incentive to behave, confidence too. The first group that approached me of the day was a child, woman, and man. They seemed incredibly nice and I thought that man had showed some sense of interest in me. He bent down and gave me a great soothing scratch behind the ears. No one really pets you in the pound, just a pat once in a while. It felt fantastic. As usual they left thought. I saw them several times pass by as the day continued. By the time things were over there was still no catch. It was hopeless. I was hopeless.
            Three weeks had passed since my last fair. Depression really had sunk in by then. I over heard one of the people in the pound bring in a visitor and ducked my head into the corner of my crate. All remaining hope in me was gone at this point. I heard one of the visitors yell, “That’s the one we were looking for!” My only thought was there was another lucky prick being brought into a home that wasn’t me. The visitors walked to the front for a little while. Some time had passed and they returned. There was a rattling on my crate door so I looked up. A group of three stood at the front of my crate. There was an older man and woman along with their kid. The kid didn’t look that young, but still was a kid. All older humans dress alike in their odd clothing so it’s hard to give a detailed description. At the time I was completely confused; they let me out before yard time. One of them hugged my face as another scratched my back. Taking another hard look at them I realized who they were, THE child, woman, and man. I don’t know why it took so long before I noticed them. They were the nice group I saw at the fair three weeks ago! Suddenly it felt I had been hit in the face. That I had awoken from a dark, misty daze. They were adopting…
 me.
            “Peter, your new home! Welcome!” The child’s name was Ethan, the woman’s Frances, and the man’s Wallace. They were letting me out of their car. When I jumped out I was greeted with a great big white home that had an old, wooden deck attached to it. In front of the deck lay six acres of field, bushes, and beautiful trees. The yard was gorgeous green. I had not seen or even known such a place existed. Connecticut was entirely different than New York. The only tree’s I had seen before were ones that looked like large bushes around the pound. Here there were trees that shot through the clouds. “Your new home” I thought. Is this what it feels like? To have a home. I tried to soak in the moment, but the three of them were so anxious to show me everything. Ethan ran me across the never-ending property. There were gardens, stonewalls, fruits, sticks, and all you could imagine outside.
            I was still just a kid when I was adopted. Living in a house had a huge effect on me. There were so many things I had never seen before, or even thought existed. I guess you could say I was a little crazy then. If you asked my family they would say I was absolutely psycho. Excitement just came so easy and on top of it, it would never go away. People, cats, couches, food, warmth, more people, beds, family, all suddenly entered my life. How could you not go wild? Each morning I would wake to my parents getting my breakfast prepared for me, along with a bone when I was finished. After they served me my combination of beefy chicken bits and kibble I would either be allowed to roam the then unfamiliar outdoors or lounge in the house. Inside there was an armada of rooms. I think it took me almost a year to finally finish exploring them all. My fluffy, checkered bed lay in the family room. It was one of the biggest rooms in the house. One large, red, clothed sofa facing directly in front of a large, rectangular box called a television. I find television from time to time interesting with all the moving images and flashes, but humans seem to be obsessed with it. They eat, drink, even sleep in front of it for the majority of the day. Each night Wallace spends hours in front of it. I guess I’ll never understand it. Along with the family room there were others such as the kitchen, bathrooms, closets, bedrooms, laundry rooms, offices, rooms to live in, the list goes on.
            I now am older and have grown extremely attached to everyone in the family, even the cat. Although I still can’t tell if the cat is fond of me. The family calls her Flora. She is an angel with the humans; with me she acts like a rabid on the streets of New York. Certain rooms of the house she won’t let me go in or even near. And when I do go near them I get her claws to my nose, it isn’t pretty. Thankfully she has the sense not to gorge my face. She’s awfully lethal considering how small she is. Sometimes I feel like she does it all for show. When we lay at the dinner table she often lunges at me, always with a closed claw. The family thinks it’s hilarious and cheers her on. When the family is out she will venture downstairs to terrorize me and whatnot. Most times it’s fun and games, but once in a while she will be in a bad mood. Her bad mood leads to real fights, like I said though she has the sense to keep her claws closed. The family would be devastated if something happened to either of us. I respect her regardless.
            Now my wild days are behind me, as are my adventures. By now I have the house fully discovered and the outdoors completely mapped out. For the most part there aren’t many surprises left in my life. There is one though that has recently become apparent to me. A surprise that has left my heart crippled. Until recently I had not felt the agonizing pain that struck me while locked away in the pound. That hopelessness that feels impossible to shake off. This surprise made that pain come back with a crushing blow. The surprise had happened so fast. I had only minutes to let it sink in. Ethan had his bags packed and room emptied. He gave me a long rub and scratched me on the head. Next thing I knew he was out the door. At first it didn’t register. I thought he was simply going out for a brief amount of time like all the humans do. Soon I began to notice Ethan wasn’t returning. I thought something had happened to him. For weeks I would sit by the front windows of the house gazing at the driveway. Every car that pulled in gave me hope. That hoped was quickly smashed when I saw that Ethan wasn’t the person emerging from the car.  During the day I would patrol the property, scanning all the possible spots where he could be. Months had passed and there still was no sign. Eventually I found out he is living somewhere else now.
 Abandoned again.

Cole Linder


October 13th has for the past thirty-seven years been excruciatingly painful for me. As many of you know that is the date of the Midtown High Bombing in Golgotha County, CT. It is the date that has devastated my life. My name is Cole Linder; October 13th, 2008 is the day I lost both my hearing and hands. For a very long time that was the date I gave up on the world, on humanity. Now it being the 37th anniversary of the bombing I have decided to release a journal entry of mine in honor of those who were murdered that day, and to those who have had their sanity robbed from them because of it. This journal entry is incredibly personal to me. I had been very hesitant to release it until now. I wrote the journal entry posted at the bottom of this introduction when I was sixteen, only months after the event. I know some of you are innocently asking yourselves, “How in hell does he write when he has no his hands?” I luckily have a dear friend of mine who offers me his time and writes down my thoughts. At the time when I wrote this journal I was still somewhat in shock. I don’t think I had fully understood what had happened that day, I was just writing to release emotion and make sense of it all.
Thinking you’ve gone deaf, gives you a sense of death. A glimpse of your inevitable future. For going deaf is not equivalent to death itself, but it is a foreshadowing feature to deaths quiet emptiness. The feeling of having sound permanently stripped from you is imprisoning. To look around and see commotion, life’s events flowing by you on mute, is absolutely frighteningly surreal. For the first couple of seconds you feel as if you have drifted into a dream, until your mind registers all the information and that dream turns into a dark nightmare.


2008 – December 1
       Images were spinning uncontrollably at first. Each eyes 2D images struggling to align with the other. A dusty, chalky haze of debris covered every inch of the room. The plaster and brick of the wall found itself all over the classroom floor. All that was left of the walls were the metal supports holding the building up. The roomed looked like a cage, a prison. Debris grinded under my nails while I crawled in aimless circles. Only seconds had passed, but I already was noticing so much, most of it pain. The rest of my senses were confronted with confusion. With clouds of dust blocking my vision it was difficult to make out what was going on. My hearing was completely gone, in its place was a constant high pitch ringing. Time seemed to be lagged, like the worlds motions were slowed down by a five hundred ton weight. There was a gaping crater of rubble in the middle of the room. Red liquids were splattered along with thick skins across the crumbled walls and destroyed desks. The creases in my face seemed to be filled with cherry dark syrup. Through the haze I could make out other students yelling, but still couldn’t hear a thing. A boy ran from the room with something in his hand. It looked like a mangled limb, but that couldn’t have been right. Trying to pull together what was going on in my head seemed impossible. A searing pain throbbed in my head, sending crushing hurt throughout my body with every beat of my heart. I fumbled around on the broken floor until I got a hold of something to use to pull me up. Starring at the ground I saw my teacher, eviscerated and painted with the same syrup that lay in the creases of my face. An intense wave of light-headedness came crashing over me. Large hands gripped my shoulders and ripped me off my feet, taking me out of the classroom. Looking at it from the outside was petrifying. It had looked like a nuclear war had gone off inside a single room. What I thought was my classroom was a shattered hole of wreckage lying within the schools interior. The large hands began to viciously shake me. All I could focus on was the stampede of people pouring out of the exits. A stern smack hit me across the face, causing me to stare the person whom the large hands belonged to directly in the eye. I had never seen him before. He was tall, but not wide. He looked awkward for having such gigantic hands. His hair was brown and long, running down over his shoulders. He had a chain necklace dangling on his neck, but it seemed to have been broken. The chains link had been snapped in the center where a piece usually would hang. His mouth was shouting, but my world was blissfully quiet. A moment passed and I suddenly noticed he was screaming the word “BOMB!” My face dropped to the immediate realization of what had had been going on. All of the everything in my stomach began to slowly inch its way up my throat, as my stomach itself seemed to drop out my ass. With a painful swallow I resisted the urge to project the contents of my stomach all over the place. I could not comprehend how I didn’t piece together what had happened. I firmly stared my savior in the eyes to try and communicate to him that I couldn’t hear. Once again he quickly tugged my shoulders, bringing me to the exit.
I was thrown down the hill away from the school where the rest of the students remained. Still thrown back by the shock I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I threw up all that everything in my stomach. In the midst of my vomiting I caught a glimpse of the school. Smoke was billowing out all of the windows and doors. It had looked like war had struck Midtown High. I fell back onto the grass attempting to re-grasp reality. It was then that I had a chance to observe the true damage of the event. My surroundings consisted of wounded students covered in theirs and others blood and parts. Two more people franticly approached me, lifting me onto a stretcher. For some reason I did not have the strength in my body to formulate sentences or even words. They loaded me into an ambulance along with several other wounded. A woman paramedic in front of me was yelling something I obviously couldn’t hear. What seemed odd at the time though were her hand gestures. She was throwing her hands up, almost like you would to signal someone to stop. I took a glance down at myself for the first time. Images began to be incredibly hard to align again. My world was spinning rapidly out of control. My vision went in and out of blackness and blurs until I eventually passed out. There was blood splattered all across my arms. The ends of my arms had been ruptured, my hands were missing.
           
A troubled psychotic student who was in my class had decided to commit suicide that day. He had made a homemade explosive device that was strapped to his chest. This boys name was David Abraham. He had sat four desks away from me in my trigonometry class. In the midst of the lesson he set off his bomb that killed him along with murdering twenty-one other students. The explosion caused a section of the building to collapse and catch fire. I was one of the five survivors in the classroom. There had been a small piece of wall jutting out of the room that made a slight barrier between David and I. That wall was what had saved mine and the other four lives that day. Now I still wonder whether I was blessed or cursed.
            David Abraham had always been a removed child who was unusually distant. He was the shadow of my class. The boy that crept the hallways trying to be invisible, but instead he stood out more than anyone else. David went through stages of anger. Like me he had lived in Midtown his entire life. In junior high he had been a target of everyone in school. He was considered “normal” you could say, though he was still the person that would be picked on relentlessly. Coming into high school David had become completely different. The clothes he wore changed from Old
Navy to scene. Not angry clothing that had “fuck the world” plastered all over it. He was more subtle about it.
            After the date of the bombing a crumpled letter written by David was found discussing his suicide. In the letter he explained how he had gone through the process of creating the bomb and what he had intended to do with it. He also included why. Two weeks prior to the event he had be crucified by a fellow student of his. I don’t want to fully elaborate on what had been done to him because of the vulgarity. In short, David had been framed for doing something disgusting that he had not in actuality done. The act caused him endless humiliation along with several days of suspension. The reason for him setting off the explosive in school was to murder the student who had caused his humiliation, who had been humiliating him his whole life.

            I was that student.

Pretty Cool Article from the Times.

New York Times Article: Found in Translation

Friday, October 1, 2010

Some Randoms

More poems..
 -


Elegant
Witty
Intelligent
Naughty

An unknown creature of mystery,
With her blissful beauty and her unknown ways
A forbidden fruit of a forbidden tree,
Forcing me to look with every sway

The sweet, soft, warmth of her angelic glance
Makes me freeze and wonder
Why I cant escape this trance
Trapped in lightning, rain, and thunder.
 -

Teacher
A man stands in front of me
Pretty fat, and yes small
Hysterically funny as well as incredibly grumpy,
He is a role model
Not mine but one
Someone of admiration
An original. The genuine character that comes
To you
Not the generic one named Bob.
He knows me by simple name and face, nothing more,
The funny thing is he is my teacher
Mathematics of all things
The subject I hate.

But
Do I hate it?
He has possibly opened my eyes,
Often one hates what one fails.
Sometimes I question,
I realize,
I don’t hate
Just fail.
-

Yeti’s and Blacks
I am a yeti
They are yetis.
But, she is a sasquatch,
What does that mean?
I am not sure.
But they tell me it matters
That being a sasquatch means life or death.
Of whom?
I better understand soon because apparently telling the difference means the world,
Means
My
Life or death.
The yetis say
If I don’t understand
I’m a sasquatch too.


 

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Literature.

What is literature?!.


Literature
Is something that writes society
That has shaped humanity,
Every man, woman, child is living literature,
Rather they are. It.
An intellect prospers through creativity, through thought,
Through expressing mind in word, in language.
Under every accomplishment are letters
R or A or Z, or whatever the letters may be,
Everything has literature. Literature creates him, her, and me.
 

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Boredness at work.


Standing in a box,
A small square space
With a corrupted, contorted face.
Hundreds by thousands crawl through this place
Emaciated by the disgrace of their race.

An institution of meaningless sustenance to some
Produce, dairy, deli organized in one,
A bum’s dream of heaven all in circular runs
All an illusion only apparent to one.
An asylum of treachery I see
All irony only apparent to me.

Feeding off other species entities
Collecting and hording all other societies
In excuses of words we call groceries
An asylum,
Where we purchase to fuel false identities.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Sir Artonious - Short Story



It’s difficult being the wittiest, most handsome, and indubitably the most stalwart in all the world. There is nothing that I have no knowledge of. My knowledge is so well known that I am the explorer for the new uncharted terrain discovered across the sea. I am Sir Artonious of Loxlale. Known to my gracious and pure people as Artonious. Let me give you a brief description of my quaint little community; vibrant pulsing green everywhere, thick tree, gothic, alive. Loxlale is a busy area constantly advancing both socially and technologically. Why recently we discovered this marvelous invention we now call the “wheel”. There is some controversy over the riots and murder it has caused, but oh well. Anyways back to my description of Loxlale’s beautifulness. Loxlale looks as if the gods crafted it. As if it were a sculpture in a garden filled of art. It is an area filled with wondrous characters. Two of who happened to be my partners of expedition. Bartholomew and Betty are their names. Bartholomew is an incapable moron who happens to be extremely arrogant and Betty is from a foreign place so she doesn’t speak English very well. Now Betty is an interesting feller, she can hardly say a word you can understand, but she just so happens to be almost as smart as myself. Anyways they are my companions who journey with me to the four corners of the world. It just so happens to be that we have a new journey to embark on tomorrow.
            Traveling over immense, terrifying, gargantuan blue bodies of water is no small feat. It may be the most crucial and difficult obstacles that one faces as an explorer. On land you stare over the miles of gorgeous ocean in awe. You think that it is one of the most incredible anomalies the earth has to offer. It size makes you feel insignificant, but at peace at the same time. However that feeling is when you are on land. While at sea, on top of the body water your feeling is much different. No mystical, dream like view sits in front of your eyes. No peaceful, calm water for you to gaze at. Instead it looks like a demented monster waiting consume you as you foolishly wander over it boundaries. As you may be able to tell I absolutely despise the sea. In fact I would rather bathe under sizzling hot coals and lava than have to float a dinky raft over its waters. But sadly I can’t bathe in coals and lava, and I do have to traverse across the sea, such is life. Good thing for me that I have two loyal partners who can be manipulated to do everything I please. Today we walked down to the dock where our weak and rickety boat laid harbor. By we I mean Bartholomew and I. Betty was already there preparing for the trip. She always likes being one step ahead of the game. Allow me to describe fully my two companions so you get the right concept of them. Bartholomew is a dumb prick. His sole purpose for tagging along is that of a donkey or mule. He comes from a wealthy family of farmers and imbeciles. When Bartholomew was just a tyke he was dropped more than several times on his head. As he grew up he was thought to be retarded by the majority of the town. He speaks incredibly fast at a volume that is unnecessarily loud. Often times when he tries to make an argument he begins to unintentionally scream in your face, it’s innocent though. The problem with him arguing though is he is the most stubborn bastard known to man. Anyways he has a goofy smile and a sloppy walk that makes him seem drunk. The moron could sleep for months straight and has no ambition in life other than to annoy me and never leave my side. Then there is Betty. Betty is a tan, lanky blonde girl from a place unknown to me and everyone else. When she was a younger she was found washed up on the body of water I loathe so much. It is a very strange case because she is the only person from Loxlale that has not been born there. She has quite an unusual sense of style because of this. Betty will never part with her monocle eyeglass that she found on the beach on her arrival to Loxlale and she also is never seen without some sort of silly hat. Along with her silly hats and monocle she wears vibrant clothing much unlike anything anyone else wears. The typical attire of the typical person is plain robes and sandals. Betty’s typical attire is wild mis-sewn clothing that she dyes whacko colors. Both Bartholomew and Betty make up a ridiculous duo to adventure with, however I have come to enjoy their company.
            So we are off on our way to uncharted territories. Our goal is to reach a newly found piece of land that is several weeks off the coast of Loxlale. It has been two weeks on this tiny indecent raft that has been made by illiterates from plywood. It surprises me every time I live from being on this thing. I have to refer to it as thing because it is so ghastly it can’t even be called a boat. The “thing” is about fifteen feet long and looks like a large canoe. The fact that we take it over the ocean boggles me and the fact that it withstands the ocean boggles me even more, however it has been used many a time and has survived without fail. The boat ride is always the worst part of the trip, not just because I am thrown aback by the sea. It’s so awful because I always get so ancy. There is absolutely no space to move about and the water is too horrific to swim in. On top of the limited mobility I have to deal with dimwit Bartholomew always pouting. When it comes to boat rides Bartholomew’s inner child really becomes apparent. He constantly complains and asks when we are getting to land. The worst part of his pouting is that when you tell him to shut up he only worsens. And if you get physical with the oaf than he gets angry and stubborn. Once when we set out of a remote island far to the south of Loxlale. On the way I had the innate urge to smack Bartholomew upside the face. Smacking him resulted in arguing, which resulted in wrestling, which resulted in getting into a tango with a bear. Anyways the point is Bartholomew is a dip shit. Betty on the other hand is a saint when on our boat rides. She rests quietly the entire length of the ride and doesn’t make a sound. She always has a look about her like she is contemplating the life’s most hidden questions. Often I think what goes inside that kooky girls head, but quickly give up because it hurts my own head to much thinking about it. Besides her lanky arms she can look absolutely beautiful. My biggest problem with Betty however is that I can never truly have a conversation with her. She knows why we adventure, she understands all that I say and do, but she can’t really converse.
            Today’s the day! We have finally arrived at our destination. I guess I jinxed our raft “thing” by saying it has always survived our journeys because about a quarter of a mile of shore the middle collapsed, forcing us to swim the rest of the way. Some supplies were lost, but all is well. Bartholomew is livid with me because I blamed the whole incident on him. Of course it wasn’t really his fault, I just like to belittle the fool. He refused to walk within fifty feet of me, so he is lamely dragging behind with his moronic pouting look. The ingenious part of belittling good ol’ poor Bartholomew is that he gets to carry all of the supplies. Good thing that we have barely any of them left.
            After walking for a day or two we found something remarkable. A grove of wilderness zapped my eyes as we came to it. Don’t get me wrong, Loxlale is absolutely beautiful, but this particular area was mind fucking. I want to say trees surrounded the circular patch of field, but they were so much grander than that. These “trees” were over one hundred feet high; they swirled with different reds and purples. Around the “trees” were rock formations looking as if they were crafted by man, but still completely abstract. The aroma of the place was thick. It was sweet and mystical almost. I glanced over to foolish Bartholomew and Betty, noticing they were in the same awe as I. Bartholomew looked as if he had just made love to a lady (which he would never be able to do). It was not a thrilled look though, because he is as stupid as a rock. Betty looked like she was in peace. Like she had just found her place of Zen. Her expression spoke to me and said something like “finally”. There was a kind of glisten to her face. I saw how she truly looked for the first time as the warm, fantastic sun of the grove radiated around us.
            We stumbled around for a little bit, laughing like drunken children. Bartholomew looked like he always does because he always looks like an intoxicated child. Anyways, upon our stumbling around we found a peculiar set of plants. They were dirty and circular. However they were not so much of plants as they were soft, miniature trees. Fleshy fungi with stringy stems and large flat tops. They were so noticeable because there was a whole garden of them. Like a piece of earth was made for them to grow there and only there. I peaked over to see if the other two noticed them as well and saw Bartholomew munching them down. He turned his head in my direction with a mouth over flowing with the unknown fungus.  Words tried to come out of his filled mouth, but all I heard was “Mmmm!” After he had the time to swallow he said they were delicious. I thought… Moronic Bartholomew. As I ridiculed him for being a fool once agin, Betty bent down and ate them as well. She nodded in agreement with the idiot. We had not had anything to eat in a while now so I figured why not. The three of us sat down and snacked and snacked. They were weirdly scrumptious. Mid feast, Bartholomew got up and had a more retarded than usual look slapped onto his face. The oddest part about it is Betty had the same look to. Bartholomew began to crack up and point at me. I smacked him as he was cackling. Suddenly I was cackling too. Laughter and laughter. Tears rolled down my face and I still couldn’t stop. Starring at me was a pink-faced idiot who was in the same ridiculous position that I was in, hysteria. After that I don’t much recall what Bartholomew did. I do recall asking myself where Betty was though. She just disappeared. I wobbly got up from the ground that seemed to be breathing and tripped over myself. The second attempt for picking myself up was more successful. As I rose the whacked out grove was pounding into my face, fucking my thought. The “trees” were still swirling with colors. Now they were protruding in and out of the ground, almost shifting. For a bit I must have gone insane. There were hysterical gargoyles of stone dancing towards the entrance of the area. They started to point and speak. I couldn’t hear them though. They definitely were talking to me however. The stone interchanged from gargoyles to plain rocks, which was rather trippy. I decided to forget about it and continued to wander. The grove was turning quickly out of control. Gravity flipped and I couldn’t take control of what was happening. In a final stand I closed my eyes to get a grip. Instantly they were opening again and I was laughing. The laughing only lasted for so long. It soon turned into panic. Panic lead to obscene amounts of sweat, which turned into an extreme feeling of nausea. With immense amounts of energy I stood up to get my bearings. The grove had turned hazy and unfamiliar. Among all the whacked out feelings I saw Betty. I tried to sprint to her, but it turned out I was just dragging my feet repeatedly in one direction. Betty wasn’t as surprised to see me, as I was to see her. When I gave her a huge hug she didn’t return the favor. I stepped back to look her in the face, but the only thing starring back at me was a rock. Confused I searched for where I was. The area that I was standing in wasn’t the grove anymore. I thought hard about where I could be. Thinking lead to a blackout, which lead to me dead.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

[Fiction] Friday #173


Fiction [Friday] Weekly Prompt #173:  Why did the Tooth Fairy fail to deliver coins one evening?

On and off. On and off. I did this with my lamp about every ten seconds since my dad had put me to bed. I was put to bed two hours ago. When is she coming? She better actually talk to me.
            This morning I was chasing my new pup George around the island counter. He’s a goofy, six month young Great Dane. George hasn’t grown out yet so his limbs are too awkward for his body to control, making him flop all over the place. Every lap he let out silly barks as he slid on the yellow pine floor around the corners. Each turn kept me going one more lap around so I could hear him bark again. The barks were playful, like when I get chased around by my brother. It always makes me laugh, but I yell stop even though I don’t mean it. Eventually George got the best of me and pulled a move I didn’t see coming. He stopped and whipped around to run under my legs. My brain told my body “Quick! Get him!” before I was able to react. I tripped, smacking my mouth on the edge of the marble counter. Before I even realized what happened I spotted a red speckled tooth missing from my mouth. I fiddled my tongue around the empty gap in the front of my mouth. A grin cracked on my face cheek to cheek.
            The tooth fairy was never going to get away this time; I would finally be able to meet her face to face. My plan was full proof. My rooms a perfect square packed with furniture and clothes. You can barely see the floor with all the scattered Lego’s and action figures decorating it. The room alone was a trap, an area that she would not easily be able to escape from. I had two ideas set in place to capture her. A lasso of rope placed on the floor beside my bed so I could grab her by the feet, along with my tooth glued to the mattress.  The tooth was glued so when she tries to swap it for the money I can use the rope real quick and tie her up.
            I could hear her tiptoeing. I held my breath and waited. When I felt my pillow lightly lift I sprung! The hand pulled viciously away as I started to reach for my rope. When I tried to pull it tight she jumped and headed for the door. She smashed her feet on all my toys and knocked over a bin of Lego’s on her way out. The tooth fairy let out deep, loud yelps when she stubbed her toes. I quickly went to flick the lights on to get a peek at her. By the time I got to the switch she had already reached the door. All I saw was a strange hairy beast, wearing sweat pants and a grey t-shirt. By the time I got into the hallway she was gone. The worst part is she never even gave me my dollar.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Rant Poem


Hypocrisy and ignorance of these bleached, phony, fake seeds
Brain washed with tales of ruby and gold
Shattered since entrance into this manipulated unnatural hell
Sickening my core to twist these lies
Calling what is day-to-day life is such a mockery of what its meant to be
Every now and then I wake from this reality
To view what we’ve become,
Each day I rise into routine
Starting from steps one, two, and three
The only time of right I feel is when in grass or sky
Or snow or tree
Or sun or moon.

Morning starts as I awake in land that belongs to me
It is bought
It is mine
Taken from natures property,
But I did not start this trend of thievery
For it’s our most valued quality,

Inventions revolutionized everyday,
But to what have we succumb
I cannot just bathe unless I have a faucet to turn on,
The food consumed hardly should be mine or yours
It comes from factory
Bought through economy
I tell truth when I say how…
How to get
How to kill
How to live,
I do not know my own instincts
And neither does the world.

Falling so intricate into what is meant to be
Life is objective
Objective is not to live,
Objective is our duty of the American dream,
To strive and excel in order to make money for him and her and them and they and we and me,
Days to years of life spent to learn mindless shit,
Indulge with pleasures that are only there for objective
The objective being to stimulate economy,
When time has come
Judged on work
On worth,
Relevant to the said objective.
Should I fail in my unnatural habitat of dedication to the occupation of system slavery,
Then I will be shunned from holy civilization,
There are those so fortunate to be human
Those so valiant.

There are those who know not what they are
There are those who feel invincible,
Those who think they are some god or king
It’s those who do not know one thing.
These seeds of foul manifestation of uselessness
Are what spread mass ignorance,           
I am with them everyday
Even when alone.

Children hidden from experience since birth
Do not know the world
They talk with gated communities
And act with ruby and gold.

Think what it would be like now with out our bullshit measurement,
Measurement of time and age
Of worthless history,
It’s all just failure for attempted control.

Imagine him and her and them and they and we and me,
All existing
All flowing with the wheel
In harmony these ignorant and brainwashed seeds would be changed,
No longer would him and her and them and they and we and me be bleached with hidden truth.

Titled: 

To Him and Her and Them and They and We and Me