A friend of mine wrote these, not me, but I felt that they deserved the potential of being discovered, stumbled upon by a wanderer, drifting in hyperspace for eternity trying to make sense.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
not-a-chance
would a young Ed Poe
or a young James Joyce,
have a hope to get in,
have a good college choice?
Quoth the corvid, not-a-chance.
And I ponder, weak and weary
As my eyes are growing bleary,
Sadly thinking thinking thinking,
Eyelids blinking blinking blinking
Why the heck would Harvard take me?
When will daylight come and wake me?
Quoth the corvid, not-a-chance.
Now my brain fills up with questions,
perhaps my mind will start to gestion:
in this age of plutonium geese,
will the earth find lasting peace?
When the oil-wells finally stall,
Will there be enough food for all?
After this age of octane force,
Should I keep my car and eat my horse?
Quoth the corvid, not-a-chance.
Learning is a life-long reading,
And my eyes keep feeding feeding.
Now my head is getting dizzy,
The candle’s flame goes flicker flicker,
The shadows grow a little thicker,
I need to keep my fingers busy,
To keep my head from nodding nodding,
To keep my progress plodding plodding,
What more has the wise man than the fool?
isn’t wisdom more than just a simple tool?
The sage’s mouth’s words are gracious,
and his imagination spacious,
But the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the tall,
Since time and chance simply happen to us all,
Quoth the corvid, lotta-chance.
The gathering of learning is like picking berries,
My left arm crooks the bowl it carries.
but when the golden bowl is broken,
Or the pitcher shattered at the fountain,
Can I take my wisdom with me,
Far beyond the distant mountain?
Quoth the corvid, not-a-chance.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Why walk in darkness?
I’d simply rather walk in lightness,
than walk in darkness.
It’s not that I’m afraid I’d trip over a rake.
It’s just that I don’t want to miss the glimmer of the rainbow,
Or the dew glistening on the morning clover,
Or the snowflakes floating in the evening breeze,
Or the twinkle in your eye.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Writing poetry is like masturbation.
I’m playing with words
Squeezing them out of thesauruses and dictionaries
Squeezing them out of my mind
Stroking them
Re-arranging them.
It’s getting hard.
My fingers fly across the page
My hand goes up and down
Am I doing any good for humanity?
Am I creating anything worthwhile?
dubious.
I’m struggling now
The words I seek are piling up inside of me
I feel their pressure.
I want to get past this writers’ block.
My hand slides up
My hand pumps down
My fingers squeeze my pen
My hand is moving faster now
My fingers grasp tightly around my instrument
I feel the release coming
I lust after the release
Here come the syllables:
Oooooh, aaahhhhh
Yeaaahhh baby
That feels so gooood
The words are coming now
They’re coming, they’re coming
My thoughts are gushing out onto this clean white paper.
Oh God, what a mess!
Who’s gonna clean this up?
Where’s the tissues?
I think I got something in my eye
Maybe it’s a teardrop
Where’s the tissues?
Where’s the issues?
Am I planting any seeds in any fertile minds?
Am I doing anybody any good?
Am I doing myself any good?
Dubious.
This paper, along with all these tissues
Need to be thrown quickly into the trash.
Writing poetry is like masturbation.
-----------------Read Between The Lions-------------------
John lived underwater.
Under the frozen ice
Of a winter pond.
I told him:
Rise up,
Break through the ice,
Breathe the fresh, crisp air of day,
And stand in the presence of the sun.
Erik lived in an egg.
Curled up in a dark, small space.
The walls were hard.
I told him:
Crack the shell,
Push on through to the outside,
Stretch your legs,
Push your toes into the soil,
Find your mother earth.
Run free.
Steve lived in a cave
A deep, dark, dank, musty blackness.
I told him:
Grope, wander,
Keep moving,
You can find your way out,
Of the labyrinthine maze of your life.
Follow the seductive wisp of fresh air,
That blows across your dusky, dank dreams.
You will find an opening,
that opens into a new world,
where brightness, and color,
and the fragrance of springtime-blossoming,
flowery buzzing bees
will awaken you.
Ulysses lived in a hall of mirrors.
Everywhere he looked he saw his own reflection.
He was not a bad-looking guy,
But grew tired of looking at only himself.
I told him:
Pick up a stone,
Break the mirrors,
You will find a magnificent, complex world,
A world that surprises you.
You will see faces other than your own;
Maybe you will even see the face of eternity.
Sam lived inside a woman.
Curled up in a soft, wet womb,
Sucking his thumb,
Dreaming of a new reality.
I told him:
Wake up,
And feel the labor pains.
The waters are breaking,
Squeeze yourself out through a small tunnel,
A small tunnel that is a gateway to life,
A small tunnel that, for many,
Is a gateway to happiness and bliss.
Squeeze yourself out,
Into the arms of the doctor,
The doctor is waiting for you,
He wants to catch you.
If he spanks you,
It’s simply for your own good.
Don’t be afraid,
The breast of your maker awaits you,
With a warm, delicious, nourishing sustenance.
Christopher lived in the zoo.
His place was in the lion cage.
He had one lion on his left,
And one lion on his right.
He was afraid.
He was sorely afraid.
He was always afraid.
He was genuinely afraid.
He was even terrified.
Why be afraid Christopher?
No one lives forever.
Reach out,
Touch the lions,
Pet them,
Caress them.
If you don’t want death to caress you,
Learn to caress death.
Saddle-up the lions;
Open the cage.
Ride the lions out into a glorious new arena,
And stand before the king.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Yay Thoowhat
“Yay Thoowaht”
I was in a place of wonder and joy. I felt warmness all over my body—I was in heaven. I just wanted more, like a ravenous beast. I got whiff of my prey and ravaged with full fury, no holding back—I was ruthless, yearning for more, more, more, MORE!!!!
I did not want to leave this place—it was a place, the only place, in which my full desires could be obtained—my wish becomes reality with the arrogant notion of a demand. My eyes closed, my breathing slowed—I was at a state of complete calm and unimaginable relaxation. I was lying down on my bed with nothing more than a translucent white sheet covering my naked body, the room was dark. I was in the position to gain anything, and everything I desired—an unearthly pleasure. I never wanted to stop—but with a mere shaking of my body—it was all over. The pleasure vanished from sight and all that remained was a sense of depression and sorrow. I sat up in bed trying to gain focus, everything was a blur and I was so cold and confused. Instead of my eyes coming into focus to a sight of an ethereal Valhalla, flowing with love, and with the promise of endless halcyon days to come; it came into sight to a dull painted room with no sense of up, down, or any adherence to the laws of gravity. My world had been “flipped upside down”. I looked to the right and saw my mom’s face, pale as a ghost—with the expression of one too; eyes as deep as a bottom-less pit. She looked at me, but it seemed as if her eyes were focused on something behind me—or as if she were looking right through me, into my soul. She had woken me up from my dreams, the only retreat I have from reality, to tell me that Yay Thoowaht(Great Grandmother in Cambodian) is very sick and that maybe this could be it. She shook me awake from my sleep, annihilated my candy shop—and replaced it with a manure factory.
My mom, sister, and I trudged through the eerie dead of the night to get to our car. My mom said that we were going to visit Yay Thoowaht in the hospital, as we have done many times before. My mom had just gotten a call from a worried relative, whom was currently “on duty”—sitting her post watching over our aged Great Grandmother, as we all took turns doing. Our relative informed us that our Yay Thoowaht might not make it through the night. We all shrugged this off and laughed at “Death’s” foolish struggle with our tough Yay Thoowaht. The record proved “Death” to be a very un-worthy adversary. Yay Thoowaht had recovered from certain death time and time again. Just as “Death” seemed to have Yay Thoowaht inches from grasp, our Yay Thoowaht would make a sudden “U-turn”, evade; so that she may taunt death once again—and perform her victory dance in the company of family. We all hypothetically questioned each other, “What if this time Yay Thoowaht isn’t so lucky, what if this visit were our last chance to show her how we felt?” We all concluded that this visit would be a special visit, in which we would treat it as if we believed it were our last chance to tell her our innermost gratitude of her and how she has done so much for the family.
As I lay in the darkness of the car, on the lonely freeway, I was caught in a trance. The steady perpetual beat of lights, from the lampposts above, was like the beating of drums. A rhythm of life; life is a rhythm we dance to. We dance, for a reason we do not know. The rhythm takes control of us and we must dance, to perform the most impressive and joyful dances we can; before the rhythm ceases to beat, before time runs out. Then we will dance no more.
Our journey brought us to the Hospital. We drove up to find a group of our family members standing oddly in the parking lot waiting for our arrival. We saw a look on their face—as if someone had just died. “But who could have died….?” I thought. I shrugged it off and said “maybe it was just that person’s time—these things happen, they will get over it”. “Now where is Yay Thoowaht I have important things to tell her”. I wanted to tell her that in no time she would be, once again, watering her garden and frolicking in the love of her family. I headed towards the hospital, with a smile on my face to meet Yay Thoowaht. I was suddenly stuck in my tracks, not able to move any further. I looked back to see that my mom had grabbed me by the arm and stopped me from galloping any further. She said “Yay Thoowaht is…” I stopped her in the middle of her sentence, and told her to tell me whatever she had to say after I have greeted Yay Thoowaht. I was in self denial, I knew what had happened but would not allow it—I would not let her confirm anything, not one damn thing! I was going to visit Yay Thoowaht and nothing would ruin it—nothing.
The car suddenly comes to a halt and the opening of car doors wakes me up. I sigh a joy of relief, because I realized that I had just dreamed all of the non-sense about Yay Thoowaht not “making it through”. But then as I emerged my head from the car I started to feel a dizzying sense of “De JaVu”. The same gathering of the family, the worried faces—I started to feel frightened that my gruesome nightmare would become a reality. So instead of giving my nightmare any chance of becoming a reality—I would simply not get out of the car. I would return home and visit Yay Thoowaht when she was better. I would visit her in her garden and she would greet me with that warm smile, as she tended her beautiful flowers and flourishing fruits. And I would return the smile—along with a great big hug.
So instead of leaving the car, I was frozen in place—by a combination of fear and hatred; hatred towards the possibility that these halcyon days would be turned into blizzards and maelstroms. But if these halcyon days did become hell, then what would happen to Yay Thoowaht’s delicate garden. It would die like everything great in this world has and my world would be reduced to sadness and a vulgar state of depression and loneliness. I started to complain, in a child-like tantrum, “Why did we have to drive all the way over here! I am tired and want to go home now!” I looked like a foolish idiot to my mourning relatives—but I was the one mourning the greatest. In my mind; rocking back-and-forth, in the fetal position, on a vomit covered putrid floor—daring “Death” to take me as well.
This trip changed my life forever. My mom drove me back home, without the opportunity to even glance at Yay Thoowaht. She took the spoiled child home so that he could get his sleep, as he so selfishly requested, while his relatives die. “He has no compassion, what a disgrace to the family they all thought.” I knew Yay Thoowaht had just died but it did not affect me whatsoever, I did not let myself succumb to the belief that she was actually dead. When I started not to see her as often, or when I saw her garden wasting away to a barren wasteland—it hit me, she is not coming back. I always thought, even during the funeral, that she would just walk right out of the coffin, smirk, and yell out “nice try ‘Death’!” Then we would all burst into laughter and once again relax in her beautiful garden and enjoy one another’s company. Enjoy the sweet aroma of the flowers, the music of the bustling wildlife, the variety of beautiful colors, and the ripe taste of her well loved fruits. She will always be alive in our hearts. She is celebrating and doing her victory dance! Look at her go. She is in a good place now. She left this world a happier place—in every respect.
This trip to the hospital was a life changing experience. Death is not to be feared. She planted her seed, of a family, and now gets to watch it blossom—from the heavens.
I was in a place of wonder and joy. I felt warmness all over my body—I was in heaven. I just wanted more, like a ravenous beast. I got whiff of my prey and ravaged with full fury, no holding back—I was ruthless, yearning for more, more, more, MORE!!!!
I did not want to leave this place—it was a place, the only place, in which my full desires could be obtained—my wish becomes reality with the arrogant notion of a demand. My eyes closed, my breathing slowed—I was at a state of complete calm and unimaginable relaxation. I was lying down on my bed with nothing more than a translucent white sheet covering my naked body, the room was dark. I was in the position to gain anything, and everything I desired—an unearthly pleasure. I never wanted to stop—but with a mere shaking of my body—it was all over. The pleasure vanished from sight and all that remained was a sense of depression and sorrow. I sat up in bed trying to gain focus, everything was a blur and I was so cold and confused. Instead of my eyes coming into focus to a sight of an ethereal Valhalla, flowing with love, and with the promise of endless halcyon days to come; it came into sight to a dull painted room with no sense of up, down, or any adherence to the laws of gravity. My world had been “flipped upside down”. I looked to the right and saw my mom’s face, pale as a ghost—with the expression of one too; eyes as deep as a bottom-less pit. She looked at me, but it seemed as if her eyes were focused on something behind me—or as if she were looking right through me, into my soul. She had woken me up from my dreams, the only retreat I have from reality, to tell me that Yay Thoowaht(Great Grandmother in Cambodian) is very sick and that maybe this could be it. She shook me awake from my sleep, annihilated my candy shop—and replaced it with a manure factory.
My mom, sister, and I trudged through the eerie dead of the night to get to our car. My mom said that we were going to visit Yay Thoowaht in the hospital, as we have done many times before. My mom had just gotten a call from a worried relative, whom was currently “on duty”—sitting her post watching over our aged Great Grandmother, as we all took turns doing. Our relative informed us that our Yay Thoowaht might not make it through the night. We all shrugged this off and laughed at “Death’s” foolish struggle with our tough Yay Thoowaht. The record proved “Death” to be a very un-worthy adversary. Yay Thoowaht had recovered from certain death time and time again. Just as “Death” seemed to have Yay Thoowaht inches from grasp, our Yay Thoowaht would make a sudden “U-turn”, evade; so that she may taunt death once again—and perform her victory dance in the company of family. We all hypothetically questioned each other, “What if this time Yay Thoowaht isn’t so lucky, what if this visit were our last chance to show her how we felt?” We all concluded that this visit would be a special visit, in which we would treat it as if we believed it were our last chance to tell her our innermost gratitude of her and how she has done so much for the family.
As I lay in the darkness of the car, on the lonely freeway, I was caught in a trance. The steady perpetual beat of lights, from the lampposts above, was like the beating of drums. A rhythm of life; life is a rhythm we dance to. We dance, for a reason we do not know. The rhythm takes control of us and we must dance, to perform the most impressive and joyful dances we can; before the rhythm ceases to beat, before time runs out. Then we will dance no more.
Our journey brought us to the Hospital. We drove up to find a group of our family members standing oddly in the parking lot waiting for our arrival. We saw a look on their face—as if someone had just died. “But who could have died….?” I thought. I shrugged it off and said “maybe it was just that person’s time—these things happen, they will get over it”. “Now where is Yay Thoowaht I have important things to tell her”. I wanted to tell her that in no time she would be, once again, watering her garden and frolicking in the love of her family. I headed towards the hospital, with a smile on my face to meet Yay Thoowaht. I was suddenly stuck in my tracks, not able to move any further. I looked back to see that my mom had grabbed me by the arm and stopped me from galloping any further. She said “Yay Thoowaht is…” I stopped her in the middle of her sentence, and told her to tell me whatever she had to say after I have greeted Yay Thoowaht. I was in self denial, I knew what had happened but would not allow it—I would not let her confirm anything, not one damn thing! I was going to visit Yay Thoowaht and nothing would ruin it—nothing.
The car suddenly comes to a halt and the opening of car doors wakes me up. I sigh a joy of relief, because I realized that I had just dreamed all of the non-sense about Yay Thoowaht not “making it through”. But then as I emerged my head from the car I started to feel a dizzying sense of “De JaVu”. The same gathering of the family, the worried faces—I started to feel frightened that my gruesome nightmare would become a reality. So instead of giving my nightmare any chance of becoming a reality—I would simply not get out of the car. I would return home and visit Yay Thoowaht when she was better. I would visit her in her garden and she would greet me with that warm smile, as she tended her beautiful flowers and flourishing fruits. And I would return the smile—along with a great big hug.
So instead of leaving the car, I was frozen in place—by a combination of fear and hatred; hatred towards the possibility that these halcyon days would be turned into blizzards and maelstroms. But if these halcyon days did become hell, then what would happen to Yay Thoowaht’s delicate garden. It would die like everything great in this world has and my world would be reduced to sadness and a vulgar state of depression and loneliness. I started to complain, in a child-like tantrum, “Why did we have to drive all the way over here! I am tired and want to go home now!” I looked like a foolish idiot to my mourning relatives—but I was the one mourning the greatest. In my mind; rocking back-and-forth, in the fetal position, on a vomit covered putrid floor—daring “Death” to take me as well.
This trip changed my life forever. My mom drove me back home, without the opportunity to even glance at Yay Thoowaht. She took the spoiled child home so that he could get his sleep, as he so selfishly requested, while his relatives die. “He has no compassion, what a disgrace to the family they all thought.” I knew Yay Thoowaht had just died but it did not affect me whatsoever, I did not let myself succumb to the belief that she was actually dead. When I started not to see her as often, or when I saw her garden wasting away to a barren wasteland—it hit me, she is not coming back. I always thought, even during the funeral, that she would just walk right out of the coffin, smirk, and yell out “nice try ‘Death’!” Then we would all burst into laughter and once again relax in her beautiful garden and enjoy one another’s company. Enjoy the sweet aroma of the flowers, the music of the bustling wildlife, the variety of beautiful colors, and the ripe taste of her well loved fruits. She will always be alive in our hearts. She is celebrating and doing her victory dance! Look at her go. She is in a good place now. She left this world a happier place—in every respect.
This trip to the hospital was a life changing experience. Death is not to be feared. She planted her seed, of a family, and now gets to watch it blossom—from the heavens.
Alternate ending for "The Bean trees" by Barbara Kingsolver
(Continued from page 215 after line 19)
I watched as Esperanza held Turtle tightly with streams of joy running down her face as if she were in a fantasy. She was completely unaware of how long she had been holding Turtle. She continued to sob and as she did so her body convulsed with every sob released from her body. The thought passed my mind that she would never let go, I noticed that this thought passed Turtle’s as well.
Turtle futilely tried to back away from the hug as one does as it has reached its time limit and has been quenched, but as she pushed away Esperanza clenched her even tighter. As she did this Turtle let out a murmur.
After all of us patiently waited for this hug to end, it didn’t. Estevan thought this lasted way too long. “Dear wife shouldn’t we now let the new mother get a chance to hold her daughter” said Estevan very politely and calmly. Esperanza said nothing.
After a long while of sobbing Estevan tried again. “Dear wife may I have her now” said Estevan as he slowly reached for Turtle. She said nothing. “May I have her” said Estevan louder this time while trying to pry her out of Esperanza’s arms which were unwilling to let go. She rocked back and forth on the chair holding Turtle sobbing an old Mayan lullaby. Estevan is still struggling with her to free Turtle. I was very confused and scared it was like someone else was in control of Esperanza.
Involuntarily I yelled out “let go of my baby”. She smiled with eyes wide open and whispered to herself over and over while rocking “No one is going to take Ismene this time” said Esperanza in a crazed voice. She shrieked “NO ONE!” then began to giggle. “Ismene you’re all mine” said Esperanza in her accent while giggling.
I was thinking the whole time how could she betray me this way. She knew how much I loved Turtle and still she did this to me. I asked her as politely as I could even though I felt like strangling her “Can I have her Esperanza”. I was unsure whether we were naming her April or Turtle or what in front of the adoption people so I just decided to avoid naming her whenever possible. I said again “…may I have her now”. She jerked her head suddenly and in a monstrous way said “NEVER” her voice sounded satanic as she was possessed, twitching, and sobbing all at the same time. We all stared at her horrified and nervous.
“Taylor” said Mr. Armistead trembling “You may not adopt a child unless the parents consent and apparently Esperanza is not consenting.”
“My baby, my baby, my baby, baby Ismene” said Esperanza while running out the door clenching Turtle. At this point Turtle was crying her brains out punching and kicking futilely at Esperanza to let go. Esperanza yelled out something in Spanish to us while taking off, I didn’t understand. As Esperanza ran down the hall and out the main entrance Turtle sobbingly yelled “Daylor telp me”. By the time I ran out the main door they had slipped away in the pitch black stormy night. Esperanza had been sobbing longer than I thought because it was already night time.
Estevan had already followed me out the main entrance and we stood still outside of the entrance trying to peer through the darkness for signs of the crazed Esperanza. I yelled out “Turtle” and immediately heard a yelp and when I looked to see where it came from I saw a barn. I ran to it and then yelled “Turtle” again, then heard another yelp that confirmed my baby was in the barn. I yelled again but heard nothing.
I was frightened and started to run harder and faster towards the barn, my heart was racing, then with all my might I threw the door open. Estevan followed quickly behind me. Once I realized what happened I immediately threw my arms around him and sobbed, he also sobbed. It started raining and we still stood there holding each other. Rain dripped down both our bodies and our clothes were drenched and our bodies up against one another. We both collapsed and continued to sob on the ground for a long time until the morning. Once the sun brought us out of our trance we started up the Falcon and drove away, far away.
What I saw that night scarred my memory forever and I see it every time I close my eyes even though it has been years since the awful tragedy. Days turned into months, then to years. I have a new life and kids and Estevan finally got his green card via marriage to a tough American girl by the name of Taylor. We have a happy home and my kids are doing just fine but I can never forget my first…
I still burst into tears thinking about that night poor Turtle, my Turtle. I remember asking Estevan what it was exactly Esperanza said in Spanish while running out the door. He told me she said “This cruel world is no place for you and I Ismene so we will live together forever in the after life, my precious daughter.” I closed my eyes and I was there again reliving it, it was so life like. I began to vomit, but the horrible memory persisted. The blood everywhere…I can hear the sound of the farm machinery doing the devils’ work. Poor Turtle, my Turtle….
I watched as Esperanza held Turtle tightly with streams of joy running down her face as if she were in a fantasy. She was completely unaware of how long she had been holding Turtle. She continued to sob and as she did so her body convulsed with every sob released from her body. The thought passed my mind that she would never let go, I noticed that this thought passed Turtle’s as well.
Turtle futilely tried to back away from the hug as one does as it has reached its time limit and has been quenched, but as she pushed away Esperanza clenched her even tighter. As she did this Turtle let out a murmur.
After all of us patiently waited for this hug to end, it didn’t. Estevan thought this lasted way too long. “Dear wife shouldn’t we now let the new mother get a chance to hold her daughter” said Estevan very politely and calmly. Esperanza said nothing.
After a long while of sobbing Estevan tried again. “Dear wife may I have her now” said Estevan as he slowly reached for Turtle. She said nothing. “May I have her” said Estevan louder this time while trying to pry her out of Esperanza’s arms which were unwilling to let go. She rocked back and forth on the chair holding Turtle sobbing an old Mayan lullaby. Estevan is still struggling with her to free Turtle. I was very confused and scared it was like someone else was in control of Esperanza.
Involuntarily I yelled out “let go of my baby”. She smiled with eyes wide open and whispered to herself over and over while rocking “No one is going to take Ismene this time” said Esperanza in a crazed voice. She shrieked “NO ONE!” then began to giggle. “Ismene you’re all mine” said Esperanza in her accent while giggling.
I was thinking the whole time how could she betray me this way. She knew how much I loved Turtle and still she did this to me. I asked her as politely as I could even though I felt like strangling her “Can I have her Esperanza”. I was unsure whether we were naming her April or Turtle or what in front of the adoption people so I just decided to avoid naming her whenever possible. I said again “…may I have her now”. She jerked her head suddenly and in a monstrous way said “NEVER” her voice sounded satanic as she was possessed, twitching, and sobbing all at the same time. We all stared at her horrified and nervous.
“Taylor” said Mr. Armistead trembling “You may not adopt a child unless the parents consent and apparently Esperanza is not consenting.”
“My baby, my baby, my baby, baby Ismene” said Esperanza while running out the door clenching Turtle. At this point Turtle was crying her brains out punching and kicking futilely at Esperanza to let go. Esperanza yelled out something in Spanish to us while taking off, I didn’t understand. As Esperanza ran down the hall and out the main entrance Turtle sobbingly yelled “Daylor telp me”. By the time I ran out the main door they had slipped away in the pitch black stormy night. Esperanza had been sobbing longer than I thought because it was already night time.
Estevan had already followed me out the main entrance and we stood still outside of the entrance trying to peer through the darkness for signs of the crazed Esperanza. I yelled out “Turtle” and immediately heard a yelp and when I looked to see where it came from I saw a barn. I ran to it and then yelled “Turtle” again, then heard another yelp that confirmed my baby was in the barn. I yelled again but heard nothing.
I was frightened and started to run harder and faster towards the barn, my heart was racing, then with all my might I threw the door open. Estevan followed quickly behind me. Once I realized what happened I immediately threw my arms around him and sobbed, he also sobbed. It started raining and we still stood there holding each other. Rain dripped down both our bodies and our clothes were drenched and our bodies up against one another. We both collapsed and continued to sob on the ground for a long time until the morning. Once the sun brought us out of our trance we started up the Falcon and drove away, far away.
What I saw that night scarred my memory forever and I see it every time I close my eyes even though it has been years since the awful tragedy. Days turned into months, then to years. I have a new life and kids and Estevan finally got his green card via marriage to a tough American girl by the name of Taylor. We have a happy home and my kids are doing just fine but I can never forget my first…
I still burst into tears thinking about that night poor Turtle, my Turtle. I remember asking Estevan what it was exactly Esperanza said in Spanish while running out the door. He told me she said “This cruel world is no place for you and I Ismene so we will live together forever in the after life, my precious daughter.” I closed my eyes and I was there again reliving it, it was so life like. I began to vomit, but the horrible memory persisted. The blood everywhere…I can hear the sound of the farm machinery doing the devils’ work. Poor Turtle, my Turtle….
sleep...wake...sleep...wake?!
Ever wake up from those really weird dreams wondering...what the fuck just happened? Then you look around, and you're like hey wait what the fuck is this?!?!? You look around, you find yourself inside a dark cement corridor, with very little light, you smell must and it feels damp. It's cold, you realize you've been bleeding for sometime, you feel weak and cold and wonder if it's because of the blood loss or because the temperature is low, then you realize it doesn't matter, you just need to get rid of this sensation. You explore towards the light, because that's the only way you'll learn anything, because you can't see in the dark and you can't really feel around with your tentacles to make out a picture, because first of all it'd take too long, and second of all they're so numb that you question whether you actually have tentacles. You venture down the labyrinthine corridors, you meet other creatures, but they seem to be travesties of life, senseless things walking into the same wall over and over seemingly going no where, or just going in circles, or writhing on the surface below them; some on the ceiling. You meander through, not knowing what you seek but hoping it will find you or somehow become apparent that it is what you seek, once gazed upon. You continue to walk down the corridor, you're not certain because there isn't enough light, but you sense that the corridor is getting smaller and smaller. Your suspicions are confirmed when you feel a sting of pain on your head and a cold droplet of what you assume to be blood making it's way down your forehead. You start to retract your appendages further and further to accommodate the force encroaching on your space, you retract further and further until you are laying down with not enough space to crawl, but just to lay there and drag yourself forward using the sand and dirt already present on the floor as lubrication between your body and the surrounding tight circular passageway. You wonder if it will just get so tight that it will crush you and continue to get tighter down it's length until it ceases to exist, but you find that you're already stuck in this position and that it'd take an equal amount of effort to go back where you came from, and you're curious to see if it actually does get tighter, despite the consequence of getting stuck in such an ever increasingly tight situation, nearly starving to death, and being prematurely devoured by vermin while still conscious. But you decide, what the hell, I might as well figure it out. You reach further and further, to grasp the floor/ground (it begins to get coarser and coarser and you wonder whether such jagged planes can still be considered a floor...but meaningless distractions ahhh you must push further, no knowledge in a name...). You continue to pull this body which you're attached to but doesn't serve much but offer extra weight for an increasingly exponentially weakening arm, or tentacle, you can't remember anymore, you just continue forward. You reach forward to press against the floor/wall/ground and use the friction to anchor your limb as it pulls the rest of the flesh behind it. But as you reach, like not appreciating the last step at the bottom of the staircase which retorts with a surprising falling out of nowhere feeling, your hand falls and realizes that miraculously the tightening passageway spills out into a bowel much bigger. You, with agonizing effort, lift yourself back to your feet, you feel dizzy and lightheaded, lean against a curved wall, regain yourself, look around; and suddenly out of the darkness, what appears to be a sentient being, or being which seemed to be trapped on the same level of madness as you, fades into existence, getting closer to you out of the darkness. It seems frenzied with odd facial contortions and quick sporadic body language, trying to communicate with you, jumbling meanings together, some you recognize, others you pretend to. He's babbling quickly, you don't understand, he seems to be in a hurry. A constant look of amazement and terror in his eyes, his eyes dart around wildly, it seems like something in the distance catches his attention. He lurches away, and fades into the darkness, no time for goodbyes, nor any reason. After some time he finds you in the darkness and returns to your side, excitedly tugs on your tentacles (or is that your long hair? you don't care to confirm, but these annoying questions keep popping into your head. Then you wonder if you actually have a head, then you snap out of it and look at the damn thing the creature brought you). It's a weathered and torn wallet, you recognize it from somewhere, you just don't know where. He excitedly opens it, his hands shaking with arthritis. You look at the contents he invites your attention to, you recognize the world federation identification card with your picture on it, though the corners seem chewed up and grimy, surfaces are faded and scratched, but you recognize it as an aged version of the one you used to carry around, who knows how long ago, maybe in a dream sometime ago due to it having the scars of use from when you had it, (scars garnered accidentally and purposefully, you recall the day you melted one of the corners of the card with the heat from a fluorescent bulb, in utter disdain at the maltreatment of the people by the self appointed "caretakers" [the same feeling you imagine the farm animals in small cages, force fed antibiotics, must think, if they are foolish enough to think anymore] , and also because you just wanted to see for yourself that the emblem of the federation, like you, would cower before the forces of nature; to confirm that nature was still the greater oppressor; the physical laws…only nothing can escape) plus extra from forgotten time. This creature is seemingly trying to explain that he is also in the identification card, that he is…you?! Without a moment to let this thought settle and take form, he quickly and in hushed tones whispers of enlightenment and traps of illusion, life force parasites, and how you are to escape before twenty twelve. You assume he meant twenty twelve o' clock; and a part of you bitterly laughs even in such situations, with no sight of any of the suns, and no clock, that he can expect such promptness and attention to detail, but you keep this to yourself. He reaches for some medicine he intends for you to ingest, his crippled hand struggles to reach out and give you this medicine, but suddenly out of the darkness a tentacle methodically attaches itself via suction to the scalp of this aged creature before you, and begins inflating and deflating, sucking out something from the crown of his head. His face goes pale, his eyes roll back, his tongue gags out of his mouth, but otherwise his face is expressionless without change, it's dead. He is suspended from the ground, but despite his lifeless appearance you sense some sort of struggle. You feel something plunk and attach to the crown of your head, you feel suction, and then the world before you slowly dissolves away and is replaced by an endless swarm of cubicles inhabited by the senseless beings you saw bumping into walls over and over and going in circles from before, but in this realm they seemed to be more in a hurry to do so. You focus your vision from far to near, and you realize that co workers are standing around auditing you. You've pissed your pants, there's a caffeine/ amphetamine concoction spilled on your uniform (bad boy they say, you were supposed to inject that like the rest of us). There is a weird attachment to your neck, it feels like a noose tied around your neck, you try to cock your head back but this noose is too short and caught on something, you realize it's your arm, your own doing. You look around, they all seem to be very demanding and expect some kind of quick response and action from you, NOW NWO NOW. You try to ignore them, to regain yourself, you just wish to be left alone, given some time to make sense of all of these allusions, illusions, and may I dare say truth. But they seem angered, and shaking their heads, they seem offended very offended; you wonder how you got into this situation, but what you wonder more is how ridiculous it is for these things to assume you exist for their use, as if any of your actions were done with the knowledge that they exist. You wonder if they do actually exist, and the only reason you will suppose they do for the moment is because they are so harshly encroaching on your immediate space and senses, you wonder if you could crawl around a corner, get them out of sight, out of mind, out of your world, if maybe that would satisfy. But you hear their incessant voices, whispers, and you sense that they can sense you as well, even though you'd rather they existed in such a distant realm that they almost did not exist; though you respect their right to exist so that is why you suggest this rather than the alternative. You understand they can hear everything you do, everything you say, type, read, think. You don't mind about your appearance or reputation, but this gives more fuel to their criticism, every action you do. It wouldn't matter if their thoughts existed some place else, but it always has a nasty way of manifesting into blockades or lashings, so you try to not upset them, though you care nothing for them. You don't pay attention to what they say, you try not to make eye contact, but when they all laugh at some fart sound, burn a book, put a cat in the washing machine, or venture to a far away land to pick up a rock and drop a pyramid on an animal relaxing in the sand, you feel obliged to laugh in unison, though it kills you every time. Slowly losing yourself, joining the pack, slowly dying. You wish to some how break free, but the punishments seem too severe, you are too scared to be scarred again, too weak to become yourself. You begin to wonder, is this all real, what is this, when you see the world melting away, when you begin to grasp at some truth, you find yourself surrounded by sick mob groups that yearn for blood, they need it, they want an excuse to have it. Your clothes don't match today, you forgot to shave your poorly growing facial hair (not that you care how it comes out, though just letting it grow out takes no effort so you opt for that). They all nervously claw at you, and giggle with each other in unison at how witty they are or stylish, though behind this you see their eyes nervously and suspiciously looking around wondering when they will be cannibalized next, trying to grease the right palms, shed the plastic smile to the right people to prolong this one day more, one day more. I'm scared to be under the microscope, to be shown to be yet another travesty of life, a mechanical being which happened to assemble itself the right way to feign existence, arrogantly looking down at other supposed inanimate matter, as if it was such an accomplishment to become aware and experience pain. You try to dream to escape, but their eyes burn red, they want you to suffer; they will not let you escape, never. You see a ladder, you attempt to climb it, you climb longer and longer, higher and higher, there’s another ladder parallel to it, they seem to dance around each other, always twirling, spiraling around each other like an endless staircase of knowledge, or maybe like a bullet spinning through nothing, and destroying everything in its path. You keep climbing but you wonder how long you can suffer to do this, to maintain this library, your hands were weak to begin with, but you find it mechanically impossible to continue any longer. You feel your fingers slowly slipping, the beings higher in the ladder are cackling as they pour oil down the spine, the black viscous remnants of those that deteriorated in the struggle from the past, but not allowed to rest in peace, continually exploited to fuel wars among the walking dead. The blackness engulfs you, it seeps into your palms covering the lines of history, the grasp becomes more futile, you struggle for air, try to hold your head above the blackness, try to swim for just a little while longer, but you are drowning. Eventually, weak and unable to hold your own weight, you slip from the ladder and fall into the blackness, struggle to hold your breath, but you eventually instinctively gasp for air, but all that remains is the blackness, no air, no air, it gets inside you and corrodes you. You cough it out, and turn your head, but there is only more blackness to breathe in, you eventually cease to struggle, and melt away into the sands of time. You are lost to the sands of time, but they will not let you rest in peace, they will seek your essence out, drain you out, burn you out, and use you as a solvent for life, a black hole. You have fallen off the ladder; you join the extinct, faceless and continual slaves to be endlessly exploited to fuel endlessly waged wars amongst the walking dead. You try to close your eyes and drift to a better place, but your imagination has been corrupted and tainted with a million ways of how they will poison you, or kidnap you one day and gang molest you then seal you in a dark cesspool somewhere for you to slowly deteriorate and rot but never fully die, to be sold for [insert monopoly agreed upon price] a gallon, a million light years from what you once were, maybe you never were anyway? But you look around and realize, that your suffering is real regardless.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LNkEWiGTqA (System of a down- Ego Brain)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LNkEWiGTqA (System of a down- Ego Brain)
Can you help me find someone?
Can you help me find someone?
Who am I? I really don’t know, do you—and if so tell me, please? Everyone is plagued with this question and spend their whole life galloping behind the answer—that is always ahead, and when one seems to be close on its trail—it will change directions faster than a rat in a maze or a bolt of lightning. Many people are afraid to show their true selves so they put on a show or a veil over them selves—fearing society will tear their true self if it even senses a whiff. When they believe the circumstances are safe to come out of their fortress, of alternative personalities that have been calculated to be the most “fit-in-able” in social situations, they will be chased back inside with a random rude comment or stare—or maybe it is all just paranoia that drives the person in all of us to flee to the fortress and lie in the fetal position hoping the attackers are unable to find the delicate inner self.
“I enjoy working hard and following instructions from authority figures without giving gruff or any sense of skepticism.” Oh would society not love for me to proclaim myself in such a manner? But sadly this would be a blatant lie. I have a mind set of my own and will not become another robot to be controlled by an inferior leader—although I am not objectionable to being bestowed by a knowledgeable and fair leader. I would rather run naked through the streets than be trapped in an upper-class society of impossible rules and etiquette—rules that if examined closely appear to be a cage ready to ensnare a victim seeking to be “elite”, selfish conquest of being better than everyone because of “class” or money. True class comes from a good heart—“there is no title more enviable than that of an honest man” said by Abraham Lincoln. Too bad I will never be envied to that degree—or at least for now.
I enjoy expressing my self in blots of ink people call words. It gives me freedom—even though some would criticize my freedom; but still I coast along in my imagination along ocean cliff sides and beautiful fields and gardens—free and unaffected from outside negativity. Actually, outside negativity only makes my imagination seem even more enticing, more of a haven, and even more colorful compared to this drab and cold reality. I enjoy literature that actually has some characteristics that prove it was actually written by a person—someone with a soul that has emanated his thoughts onto the paper and gave life to the ink. Manipulate it to tell an interesting story or just ramble on; or reflect their innermost feelings that they dare not say out loud, but take comfort in the privacy of writing it down without murmuring a single word of it to another, or maybe even themselves—then maybe it may be safe to wander from the fortress, but only temporarily! If I were to be my true self, say every word I thought about aloud, I would have already been slapped to a pulp by beautiful girls, or “maybe not” said I optimistically to myself, and beaten to death by nitwit brutes. So thus my hiding in the fortress is only understandable—I do allow friends into my fortress though, or maybe only partially.
My life experiences shape me. As each wave gets pulled back to the sea a new imprint is left on the sand and changes with the next; as does the “me” with everyday, every experience, and every life lesson—life is a lesson. The self you are reading about is only temporary and a new self will replace the old to accommodate with the drastic changes of everyday life. Enjoy this “me” before it flutters away—before society mutilates it to the point it will be incapable of wandering from the fortress, and also unwilling.
Who am I? I really don’t know, do you—and if so tell me, please? Everyone is plagued with this question and spend their whole life galloping behind the answer—that is always ahead, and when one seems to be close on its trail—it will change directions faster than a rat in a maze or a bolt of lightning. Many people are afraid to show their true selves so they put on a show or a veil over them selves—fearing society will tear their true self if it even senses a whiff. When they believe the circumstances are safe to come out of their fortress, of alternative personalities that have been calculated to be the most “fit-in-able” in social situations, they will be chased back inside with a random rude comment or stare—or maybe it is all just paranoia that drives the person in all of us to flee to the fortress and lie in the fetal position hoping the attackers are unable to find the delicate inner self.
“I enjoy working hard and following instructions from authority figures without giving gruff or any sense of skepticism.” Oh would society not love for me to proclaim myself in such a manner? But sadly this would be a blatant lie. I have a mind set of my own and will not become another robot to be controlled by an inferior leader—although I am not objectionable to being bestowed by a knowledgeable and fair leader. I would rather run naked through the streets than be trapped in an upper-class society of impossible rules and etiquette—rules that if examined closely appear to be a cage ready to ensnare a victim seeking to be “elite”, selfish conquest of being better than everyone because of “class” or money. True class comes from a good heart—“there is no title more enviable than that of an honest man” said by Abraham Lincoln. Too bad I will never be envied to that degree—or at least for now.
I enjoy expressing my self in blots of ink people call words. It gives me freedom—even though some would criticize my freedom; but still I coast along in my imagination along ocean cliff sides and beautiful fields and gardens—free and unaffected from outside negativity. Actually, outside negativity only makes my imagination seem even more enticing, more of a haven, and even more colorful compared to this drab and cold reality. I enjoy literature that actually has some characteristics that prove it was actually written by a person—someone with a soul that has emanated his thoughts onto the paper and gave life to the ink. Manipulate it to tell an interesting story or just ramble on; or reflect their innermost feelings that they dare not say out loud, but take comfort in the privacy of writing it down without murmuring a single word of it to another, or maybe even themselves—then maybe it may be safe to wander from the fortress, but only temporarily! If I were to be my true self, say every word I thought about aloud, I would have already been slapped to a pulp by beautiful girls, or “maybe not” said I optimistically to myself, and beaten to death by nitwit brutes. So thus my hiding in the fortress is only understandable—I do allow friends into my fortress though, or maybe only partially.
My life experiences shape me. As each wave gets pulled back to the sea a new imprint is left on the sand and changes with the next; as does the “me” with everyday, every experience, and every life lesson—life is a lesson. The self you are reading about is only temporary and a new self will replace the old to accommodate with the drastic changes of everyday life. Enjoy this “me” before it flutters away—before society mutilates it to the point it will be incapable of wandering from the fortress, and also unwilling.
You can’t Ever get what you want
You can’t Ever get what you want
For some reason, damn that reason, I can’t seem to get what I seek.
It seems that the girl I want is always in some other guy’s arm
Or is ripped from me for some reason. This makes me feel kind of meek.
Also, I’m never getting that pricey guitar—without setting off an alarm.
When I fill a paper with words, joyfully turn it in, I always picture an invisible “A” on it.
When it returns to me there usually is a very visible “A”, deformed though.
I study this weird looking “A”, confusion turns to disappointment, no longer lit.
I feel really gloomy and low.
So I pack up my things and drag myself home
And think why should I go on? What is the purpose? What is the reason?
I lie and dream to myself, alone.
I am violently shaken and awaken from my illusion—which feels like treason.
I have a cell phone to call for help when it rains hardest, though it seems more for style,
Because I don’t have anyone to dial.
Product recall, false advertising
This is a ONCE and a lifetime offer. This one of a kind “Anonymous”*tm is going to be sold to the route that is bidding the most FUn and PLEASure—in the long run. He has many qualities that will enable him to enjoy and pursue this currency of “FUN”. He has a quick wit and a silver tongue—and also wields the very persuasive weapon known as the pencil, outlet of creativity. He is fairly attractive and athletic. His path does not end in his hometown and he IS destined to travel the world and spend the rest of his days with the woman of his dreams—he is well on his way to accomplishing this. He has already explored the far reaches of the U.S.A. and has sailed through the blue mystique known as the Atlantic Ocean. DO NOT let this offer slip away. Gauranteed awesome time and will live life to the fullest.
DISCLAIMER: Will wither away if oppressed in the depressing routine of everyday life. Will seek adventure, and will seek adrenaline. “Silver” tongue not actually made of silver, and “quickness” of wit varies. Wash in hot water, tumble dry only. BUY AS IS!!!
DISCLAIMER: Will wither away if oppressed in the depressing routine of everyday life. Will seek adventure, and will seek adrenaline. “Silver” tongue not actually made of silver, and “quickness” of wit varies. Wash in hot water, tumble dry only. BUY AS IS!!!
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