M.O.R.O.N. ?

Aggot B. Otto and His Watch

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 13:27:00 -0700

Aggot’s phone had been ringing. The twelfth ring, he had counted. He was staring outside his broken window, looking at the flickering light across the street. On the fifteenth ring, Aggot picked up the phone.

“This is doctor Otto,” answered Aggot dryly. “Who is this?” he blurted. “Sorry, I don’t… When? Oh did I? Well, hello, how are you doing!?” Aggot sat on his unmade bed and stared at his old radio, the radio he had gotten as a gift from an old homeless man. Surprisingly, the radio still worked very well.

Aggot hung up the phone, put his trousers on and picked up his coat off of his creaky wooden floor to dust it off. He grabbed his pocket watch, the one he found walking home through an alley one night. It needed a shake every few weeks but otherwise, it did what it was needed for. Aggot put on his coat, buttoned it up to his neck, pocketed his watch and walked out the door of his modest little home.

Aggot arrived at the front stoop of a house on Leyton street. He rang the doorbell twice and checked his watch with a smile. A light came from the top window and less than a minute later, the door opened up.

“Aggot?” Said the woman who opened it.

“Hello, how are you?” He asked

“I’m well, Aggot…” replied the woman. “Do you want to come inside? It’s quite cold, now -“

“No no,” interrupted Aggot. “But I suppose since you offer, it does seem like a good idea so I’ll go ahead and take it.” The woman stepped aside. Aggot brushed by her, and wiped his shoes on the floor mat. He removed his coat, slung it on his forearm and reached his hand out to shake the woman’s hand.

“Come, Aggot, have a seat in the kitchen will you?” ordered the woman. She was already there by the time she finished her sentence. Aggot put his arm back down and walked through the hallway and into the kitchen where the woman was sitting, preparing a cup of coffee.

Aggot sat himself down and wiped his glasses off on his shirt before checking his pocket watch with a smile. The woman sat on the chair across from Aggot, facing away from him at first until she slid over a mug. Aggot and the woman exchanged eye contact as the mug of coffee rest on the center of the table.

“What brings you to visit me, Aggot?” stuttered the woman. “Is there something you… need?” A picture from the family room occupied her eyes and Aggot was focused on the coffee.

“No, not necessarily, I don’t need anything from you,” blurted Aggot as he stood up from his chair. The coffee nearly spilt and the black liquid was still rocking about as he moved his chair aside and behind him. “But Im curious as to why you called me earlier today,” he responded in a much lower tone. He checked his pocket watch again, the seconds arm still moving. “Is there something you need?” The woman look at Otto, who was waiting for an answer.

“I’m sorry,” said the woman. “I don’t -“

“Don’t be sorry,” said Aggot. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but quite frankly, it seemed as if you needed somebody to speak to. Do you want me to leave? I can leave.”

“No no, I’m -” she paused. “I was just calling to say hello, to see how you were doing, Aggot.”

“Indeed. And you got your answer. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but there was a sound of tension in your voice. A bit hesitant, it seemed. Why did you call me?”

The woman looked away again, this time she sat more upright in her chair. All she could do was clear her throat and tap her fingers on the table.

“I suppose it’s time for me to leave, then. You look bothered,” Aggot said as he made his way slowly to the front door. The woman got up quickly, knocking the coffee mug to its side and spilling it all over.

“Wait!” She uttered as quickly as the coffee dripped down onto the linoleum. “You don’t have to leave, Aggot, I’m sorry if I don’t -“

Aggot stopped in his tracks and without looking backwards he spoke. “Did you forget what I said about being sorry already?” He put his coat on and checked his pocket watch. “Now, it seems that either I’m wasting your time, or quite actually, you’re wasting mine. If you have something to say, then I’ll listen. If I was wrong about you being tense, wrong about you needing somebody to talk to, then I will gladly be off.”

The woman took a deep breath and stared blankly for a second. “Aggot, it’s just that you caught me at a strange time.”

Aggot turned around. “Indeed I did catch you at a strange time,” he said. “But what does it matter? I am given the impression that you want to be alone right now, which is why I will leave. But I’m still confused as to why you called me like that.”

“I already told you,” said the woman. “I didn’t expect you to come, really.”

Aggot went towards the door again, but stopped short of it. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but…” Aggot looked at his watch and gave it a shake. “I am under the assumption that you are feeling lonely, and have been feeling lonely. A grand assumption, yes? Especially after one phone call and a trembling voice, and that’s why I came. You call to see hear how I was doing, I come to see how you are doing. And now that I stand here, you seem to be doing just as I assumed. This confuses me quite a bit.” Aggot let out a sigh. “You sounded lonely, yet you seem to be afraid to discuss anything about it, or even to say if I’m wrong about it. This, however, doesn’t seem to matter. You stand there, unable to answer any of my questions, you sit there, unable to look at me properly in conversation. Perhaps I’m wrong about your loneliness, and I may be. Goodbye, and have a good evening.” Aggot let himself out, and closed the door behind him. He looked at his pocket watch and the seconds still ticked.

Aggot was back home and sitting on his still unmade bed. He took off his trousers, threw down his coat and laid on his back to close his eyes listening to the soft ticking of his pocket watch. But before he could sleep, his alarm clock turned on. The loud screaming of the AM radio and static filled his tiny home, telling him to wake up. He stayed on the bed, as phone was ringing on it’s twelfth ring.

Love Trauma

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 12:02:00 -0700

Trauma kills. With each killing of lives, the next one becomes exponentially more cherished. But like the cat with nine, it doesn’t make us dead.

Trauma, the disease that tortures inevitably. The disease that can’t be cured, but treated. The disease that teaches the heart of the path to death.

All people are not equal. Trauma wears different masks, different faces to be seen by the people with minds as different as the costumes of trauma.

Trauma, the true teacher of love. The teacher unafraid to teach life without a candy coating. Like a good teacher, trauma’s lessons stay in the memories until our last days. And like many great teachers, trauma is easily misunderstood. It is the unforgiving teacher of love, but also a teacher of hate.

We are the students of trauma, the creators of the soul. From our birth, the creation of us, trauma begins to watch, unbiased. Trauma is the teacher that can make great people, or destroy great people. To trauma, we are all born the same, and we all die the same. The earlier it strikes, the more powerful the lesson, more unforgiving to the soul of the newly born. To trauma, its teachings are just as worthy for the child as they are for the adult.

To those who’s parents have been killed by trauma, you are the ones who are taught to love and raise yourself independently.
To those who’ve been betrayed, forgotten and abandoned by trauma, you are the ones taught to rely on yourself the most.
To those whom trauma frightens, you are the ones who are taught to be brave and to anticipate.

Trauma knows not where you are from or where you will be, it only knows what it is capable of. Trauma knows not of an easy world, but of a land that kills, destroys and scares. Trauma hides nothing and trauma is honest. Trauma cares not who you are, but who you can be.

Suffer

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 07:20:54 -0700

Grab it around the neck, that wretched beast which torments your soul. Embrace the creature with its fangs locked onto the body of your spirit. To force the beast off is only a temporary relief as the pain would still be burning from your open wound. Let the beasts jaws clasp themselves tightly, tighter every second. And until your spirit can cry no more, the beasts bite will reduce to a nibble and then to nothing at all.

Let this would heal itself onto the beast. Let it become one with your soul, leave the memory of suffering, the pain, and remember the sharpest teeth embedding themselves deeply. Remember the beast, the creature that can hardly harm or hurt anymore, the beast still hanging from your soul by the ends of its fangs.

To run from any beast, hiding your soul, it is but a means of delay. Though there may be no chasing or hunting, the beast will still meet you again with its eyes more fearsome and fangs much sharper. Let the beast bite onto your soul, let it latch itself to be vanquished. Let your suffering bore the beast and let your pain heal it dead.

Walk the earth with these beasts collected, healed onto your soul, the pain of each different monster in your memory. Let these memories aid you for when you meet a similar beast, the pain of its inevitable bite will have already been forgotten before it even opens its mouth.

The Collective Energies of Man

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 18:39:00 -0700

When you wake up tomorrow, it is usually unknown how the day is bound to be. Walking through the hours and minutes, passively accepting whatever father time gives, allowing your emotions and conscience to be tossed around like a ship in a storm. There are the days when the water is calm and there are the nights when the storms have yet to clear.

The sea, the wind and the sky, the collective energies of the day. Always moving the same way, as they have since the day we were born. However still collective, the energies of man are not as consistent. Like the days when wrong is but a word, like the days when even the sun is against you, the collective energies of man will share the fables of the times.

Like mold on fruit, the collective energies of man can taint or cure. Like the waves in the oceans, the waters of man continue to feed, clean, kill and destroy. But the waters of man can not be bound to predictable continuum. Unlike the magma that threatens and unlike the hurricanes that are mostly inconsiderate, the collective energies of man hold a strength more raw than that of the oceans.

The collective energies of man know not of its goodness and evils. The collective energies of man care not for the wellness of its own self. When you wake up tomorrow with the skies red with blood and the flames dancing with the fractured earth, there you will feel the collective energies of man from your bed to your grave.

Vomit on the chin of mother nature yet to be wiped clean. The dropped cigarette granted life for it has found its way back to your lips. Death in the pits of dying stomachs, and death moving faster than the speed of eyes. The anti christ, your best friend, worst enemy and mother. Carefully glued metal and synthetics, connecting through witchcraft and demons. Mathematics and physics as proofs of truth, holy divinities as values to the afterlife. Virtues as the one and only savior. The collective energies of man, the only true means to an end.

Mr. Watanabe, the Japanese business man in trouble

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 18:20:00 -0700

I am sitting in my truck preparing for the work day ahead when a tan sedan pulls up next to me. I have my headphones on and I see him trying to get my attention, speaking something I couldnt hear.
I remove my headphones and walk to the window of the japanese man dressed in tie and some pretty spiffy slacks, he was wearing one of those stereotypical japanese businessman glasses.
“Excuse me, do you speak japanese?” He asked with a heavy accent. I told him no. I figured the man wanted some directions. “I’m from Japan,” he said. “You speak english? sorry I don’t speak english very well but I need help. I already asked 3 americans but they said they couldnt help.” I agreed to help him and he gave me one of the longest and firmest handshakes I’ve ever been given as he thanked me.

Do I look that japanese? I thought to myself. The Japanese man was holding a map out in front of him and I was expecting him to ask me how to get somewhere. “Please don’t misunderstand me,” he said before his story. He began with something about him being at El Cajon and continued with saying something about going to the 5 north up to San Francisco. OK, I said, maybe he needs to get to san francisco.

“I made a mistake,” he continued. “I put my briefcase down and forgot about but. When I came back to get it, somebody picked it up!” He stammered. That’s when I saw that the dude was in it deep. He explained to me a story in broken, yet still fairly understandable english. Something about him calling his brother for help and something about him not knowing when they’ll be coming. “So I thought it would be best for me to drive all the way up to San Francisco,” he told me. “This is not my car, this is a rental from the Airport” he said. “Now here’s my problem. I have no gas!”

So the man needed help to buy gas, I assumed. Now I don’t normally see Japanese people frantically asking strangers for help, 4 random people no less so I knew that he was in trouble.

“What is your name?” he asked. “Please don’t misunderstand me, my family has money, I’m an engineer, I can send you money” he said. He handed me a pad of paper. “Write your name here, your address too, do you live around here?” His questions were flustered and I could hear that he was at the point of desperation. I told him that I worked at the grocery store behind us and that I was getting ready for work in ten minutes. “Please don’t misunderstand me,” he said one more time

So I look in my wallet and find that I only have five dollars. But the Japanese man would have none of it. He kept saying how his family had money and that money was not a problem so I agreed to go with him to the gas station in the shopping center to help him buy gas. When we pulled up to a pump, he said again “please don’t misunderstand me, Im going to be driving to San Francisco non stop, it’s my only choice,” he said. I will need about 2 tanks of gas and if you can help me, I will double what you need to give me. my family has money, money is not a problem” he said.

I sat there and opened the door. “tell you what,” I said. I pulled out my wallet and took out the hundred dollar bill that I saved for emergencies. “If you need 2 tanks of gas, I can give you this.” I handed him the money. It seemed to me like a pretty big emergency. “Thank you very much, please allow 3 to 4 days for my family to send you money! Im very grateful!” he said with another firm handshake. As I began to walk away, I turned around and screamed good luck.

Mr. Otto

Tue, 06 Oct 2009 12:27:00 -0700

The ticking of the clock seemed to be getting louder and more prominent after each round of silence that the patient gave. The heavy clicks chugging uphill drove the pace of the room, seemingly mesmerizing both Doctor Aggot B. Otto and the man sitting on the chair.

“Think of yourself,” said the doctor, “as a gun.” The patient, a thin mustached man stared wide-eyed. “Now imagine your decisions, all the choices that you’ve recently made, as the bullets.” The patient’s eyes somehow appeared even wider, yet he had not moved a muscle at all. “Those burning chunks of lead, SMASHING, DISPLACING, DESTROYING all they come into contact with. Too quick to dodge!” exclaimed Aggot, his hands in fists as he struck them against each other. The patient’s eyelids flinched during each exclamation that the Doctor emphasized, almost in sync with the still-ticking seconds arm of the clock. Aggot peered at him through his glasses which he adjusted to rest back on the bridge of his nose.

“…So you mean..” Stuttered the man, standing now. “Have I been shooting people the whole time?” Aggot played with his glasses some more while stroking his chin slowly. “… I didn’t really mean,” began the patient.

“You’re not understanding what I’m saying, I’m afraid,” interrupted Aggot. The man sat back down. “You never shot anybody with a gun.” A few more ticks of the clock echoed through the room. “Do you believe you shot anybody?” Aggot said with a fixed stare at the restless man on the chair.

“I can’t answer that,” whispered the man, his face elongating. “To be honest, you aren’t being too clear… I mean, I don’t understand.” Aggot’s brow pinched together, he leaned forward from his chair moving his face and his gaze forward. He connected the tips of his fingers in contemplation as the man fidgeted in his seat.

“Now hear this. Imagine yourself as a ghost — a poltergeist more appropriately,” said Aggot. “A dead soul who roams our world, unseen by us, the living humans. The soul of an honest man who lived a content life. With a beautiful suburban home, a wonderful family, with a wonderful child, maybe two — but that doesn’t matter. Consider your life, your soul, taken abruptly. A death even you were unaware of. An accident, if you will.” The man sat low in his chair, his eyes affixed. Aggot now paced the room. “This sounds unfair, does it not? Life being taken suddenly, you, minding your own business and then in less than a second’s time, Monsieur Reaper taps you on your shoulder from behind.” Aggot stopped in his tracks, the ticking of the clock continued withouth him. “And now you notice you’re stuck in the world of us humans. Bodyless, walking the earth - or floating, whichever you prefer, really.” Aggot pauses once more. “Tell me, what is your spirit to accomplish? Surely there must be some reason for this emprisonment, right? What do you make of your family now, mourning the all too sudden loss of their father, their husband? You can see them every day, you can see them sitting, eating breakfast, watching the television, talking with each other, crying with each other - you can see it all. Picture it all for me and tell me,” says Aggot “tell me how disgusting all of that is?” The ticking of the clock grew silent and the door to the room opened, a large muscular man on the other side seeing Aggot standing, waving his arms eccentrically, out of breath.

“It’s lunch time, mister Otto,” said the man at the door. “Now lets go, it’s time to get your medicine.”

“I’m not finished,” muttered Aggot as he turned, placing his arms behind his back. The man at the door stood, arms crossed, waiting for Aggot. Aggot walked to face him. “Now that we’ve got an audience, I can truly emphasize my point. You sir, what do you make of what I’ve said just now? You heard it all, yes? Will you tell me what you make of it, and hopefully some confusion would be cleared up?”

“I heard it all, now lets go Mr. Otto, we don’t really have the time for any of this,” replied the man at the door. He grabbed Aggot by the arm and escorted him out of the doorway.

“Just stay here,” said Aggot looking back in the room as the door closed slowly behind him. “I’ll be back and we can talk some more about this.”

“Alright, alright Mr. Otto, we can talk some more but right now we’ve got to get your medicine before lunch. After that, we’re gonna go see the Doctors,” said the man holding Aggot by the arm.

“Ah, my friends, I’ve got much to discuss with them!”

“Right, you’ll discuss with your friends after lunch, Mr. Otto.”

The Insides

Sat, 03 Oct 2009 22:55:00 -0700

“My stomach hurts,” said the kid in a disney land t-shirt. The father approaches the boy with a grimace, eyes curling downwards and emphasizing his already apparent wrinkles. His mustache bristles up and I could have sworn his face went form pink to more pink.
The father, or at least I think he is, grabs the boy by his forearm. ”Okay, then lets go get some food!” He exclaims. He storms off, walking - or more appropriately - hobbling towards the fast food chain across the sidewalk like a gorilla dodging land mines and dragging a burlap sack filled with stones or whatever gorillas would want to carry. The smallish boy is running along side the locomotive pink man, probably concerned about his arm that could have probably be ripped off its socket if he were to go a shade slower than his already quickened pace. I watched them both hurry until they finally got to the front doors and inside.

Fast forward and a woman is sitting on a bus stop rubbing the sides of her head with her index fingers. Her head is tilted down, her eyes are closed and the wrinkles on her brow were not unlike the pink man’s. Her elbows are wrinkling the magazine sitting on her lap. There is a person sitting to the right of the woman on the other side of the bench. He is staring across the street towards a park or maybe the tree with a plastic bag swaying on one of the branches. I was close enough to hear the woman muttering to herself, but not so much as to understand her accent. She kept rubbing slowly the whole time, the man next to her paying no notice since he was apparently more interested in either the children playing soccer or the same bag. A bus blocks my view from the two and when it departs, the people are gone.

Walking towards the back of a strip mall, I hear a man arguing over the phone loudly. I walk by stealing one glance at him, a black man with an american football jersey wearing a baseball cap backwards. There wasn’t much to see or assume so I did not mind him, instead electing to sit in the shade on the milk crate that’s always there for me and my cigarette breaks. I cant see the man but his voice is definitely loud enough to hear. His voice doesn’t sound very happy to me, but I’m not paying attention to what he was saying as I am more interested in trying to make my spit reach the rat trap across from me. “WELL MAYBE IF YOU WEREN’T SO SENSITIVE, I COULD TALK TO MY FUCKING WIFE FOR ONCE,” I overhear him scream before his voice disappears.

A man is standing on front of a little portable table at the entrance of the grocery store. On the table is a bible and a few papers. A sign is taped onto it that I didn’t read but I assume that it’s something about teenagers, women and drug abuse, because that’s what the man is asking donations for. He is bald with a camouflage mustache — I don’t see it unless he stands still for longer than a couple of seconds. Between customers entering or exiting the store, he sings opera. Surprisingly, his voice is perfect for a ferry ride in Venice. As I walk past him, we exchange glances and he gives me a half smile with a nod. When I leave a few hours later, he is still there singing his song.

A boy sitting on a bench under a tree next to a vending machine near the store has headphones on and he is wearing a face that can’t be described. Upon inspection it doesn’t look like he’s looking at anything in particular, but I feel like there’s something in his line of sight which is stealing all of his focus. Every few seconds, I see him shift his glare towards a passer-by, a bird or behind him. Every few seconds, he crosses his legs gentleman style, propping his head up with his hand while his elbow rests on his right knee. The boy is dressed in a dark collared shirt, khaki pants and a worn down pair of dress shoes with creases on where the joints of the toes bend backwards. It didn’t take long until the boy’s glare found mine and until then, he stayed sitting. He finally gets up and walks away and around the corner ahead.

I am sitting on the same bench, propping my head up the same way, staring in the same initial direction as the boy was when I first saw him. In front of me I see a man opening his trunk and putting his groceries away one by one. In front of him is an old woman crossing the street, pushing a shopping cart with a toddler sitting inside, popsicle juice all over his clothes and dripping down his face. I watch the old woman hand the small boy a napkin during her pass to the other side of the street and I’m sure the couple in the car slowly approaching are looking too. In the sky, two birds are flying alongside each other in the same paths, turning the same way at the same time. In near-perfect synchronization, they are dancing in the air as a crow, not too far away, is perched on a street lamp blotted white maybe with his own shit. To the left of me are a group of store workers, three of them, all smoking their cigarettes, and all talking loudly enough for me to hear about the “bullshit we have to go through inside.” They leave one by one. First the man with a brooklyn accent nearly jumps up off his seat get up. He flicks his cigarette violently on the floor showering glowing ash all over his shoes but he didn’t notice since he wasn’t looking. Next it was a teenage boy wearing a cap with the store’s logo. He stands a bit slower than the New Yorker as he is taking a sip of his energy drink, fastening his apron and taking a few last drags from his cigarette. His face looks tired, eyes droopy with a smug looking grin on his face. The last person leaves at the same time as the him, but she is gone before he finishes his smoke. The parking lot is moving. People are entering and exiting. Mothers, Fathers, families, grandparents and kids on skateboards are traveling by.

Mothers

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 16:00:00 -0700

The center is the sun, the provider of warmth. The source of our life and with boundless gravity, she carries the orbits of her children. Planets orbiting around the fiery star, orbiting with each other and living in their continuing circular movement.

Wondrous spheres all perfectly round to the naked eye go the way of their own pulls. Mysterious forces all propelling stones and snowballs around mother sun. Fragments of ice that revolve around the giant planets, rings of reflections gathering around the masses of gas. Eight large orbs making their own way around, with their own moons and their own ways of self revolutions. Solid or transparent; volcanic or freezing; active or dying, the surfaces keep their shape and keep their paths.

Beginning perhaps four billion years or more before we were born. Paths that were shaped through collisions unknown, the Titans and Ceres began to appear. Volcanoes erupting and moons being made, an explosion of energy created the ways, says the big bang theory (a story from nowadays). Somewhere along the line the axis of Uranus tipped to its side, with Neptune along to see with his own eyes. Neptune, now the last in the line, who once perhaps had 14 moons, is now left alone as the outermost find.

Pluto, perhaps familiar with Neptune, remains alone regardless of stories and what anyone says. His orbit crossing Neptune’s way, Pluto’s path is observed to stray — and because he’s just so far, it seems he wants nothing to do with Sun anyway.

Fly close to the stars and your wings could melt, which Mercury knows or perhaps Hermes. Venus, Earths sister, and goddess of love is the home of volcanos and storms of thunder that can only be seen beyond her dense sulfur clouds. Her lover, Mars, once the god of fertility and vegetation, according to myth, now only knows war. Even further are Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune, all in the colder parts, and with the most moons. But with a surface that our feet can’t step and distances our bodies can’t wait for, they live mostly in secrecy. With spectacular size, the beauties of their surface are a sight to observe — and our star, she shines on, without shadow or blemish. An unconditional output of light for her children and theirs, too. No way does she impose or impede. No way does she kill, influence, or feed for her need. In the center, she sits, and watches for eons. Planets, comets and meteors stray on. The spheres, the stones, ice and the iron, they’re all attracted to Sun and her fire. Within all the orbs that circle our star is the force that steadies their peace and their war.

Scientifically speaking,

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 12:03:00 -0700

Sounds of words and song echo inside an empty skull, scraped clean of the once grey solid matter that clung on the smooth inner walls. Echos bouncing freely, moving quicker than can be understood, though not all waves are lost through the earholes which continuously feed the abyss. Light making its way through tiny holes are creating shadows of trees, of faces — smiling, frowning, laughing, sneering — and doubt. Through the front and like a projector, a fuzzy broken image dances on the back of the skull making the cracks and blemishes more apparent on the inside.

Conversations, smells, sounds, and visions occur regularly, making sense if only for a second. A twisted series of entropic energy knotted in a way a sailor would to keep the mast of the ships stable, all being tied together and all confusing to the one unfortunately designated to undo them.

With steps all the same length, breaths indistinguishable in pattern, blinking without rhythm, the turning of the sun and rising of the moon are impossible to distinguish apart. A lamp that lit a room so well, a bed that carried a sleeping soul undisturbed, and a quarter without character has now become somebody or something.

With the inside of the skull still a hollow place for continuous and disorganized interaction, the extremities for dimensional interaction become rocket science. When ricochets collide with each other, the probabilities of confusion increase. Like a black hole, the conflict causes a circular friction of a force that allows a storm to form easily — but this all begins and ends within.

A lonely head once heavy, is now thin and devoid of content. Forgotten its companion, forgotten its direction and misplacing the corks that once kept its lobes from drooping out slowly. A regular affair for the head to lose track of its own progress — though it has not been uncommon for the frontal, temporal or occipital lobe to escape for some fresh air. As history and observation would dictate, all who love their home eventually return and those who love their children will worry always.

A Night To Forget That I'll Always Remember

Sat, 26 Sep 2009 13:44:00 -0700

The world is spinning or perhaps it’s just me. I can see the dark spot on the floor where the glass of juice was knocked over and I can still feel the weight of sunglasses collapsing under my foot. Now I can sort of stand up straight and I can sort of hear the lyrics to the music. I can also probably hear the words being spoken or perhaps they’re really being sang. I take a few steps and the carpet under my feet feel like clouds collapsing, not being able to handle the pressure of my relaxed, yet heavy feet. Now I drop myself onto my bed. A collection of pillows and blankets bundled up is now the safest, most comfortable spot in the heavens. I can sort of see a figure in front of me but I mostly feel an arm and a leg wrapped around my body like a maximum-protection seat belt designed to keep me from falling down and through the flimsy nimbus floor below. Now I can sort of see a face in front of me, but I mostly feel two eyes fixing the earth to its axis, regulating the gravity, keeping my furniture from tipping over and sliding about. The world is still for about fifteen minutes or fifteen years. I close my eyes feeling a chest and a heart wanting to escape or explode but when I open them, I see that they’re not just mine. So I close my eyes again, thinking about all the pumping blood and cosmic forces. But then when I open them, I am sitting in my bathroom, looking at my vague reflection through the water in the toilet.

The Examination Of Certain Behaviors

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 19:49:00 -0700

The polar bear sits atop his thin floating block of ice, looking across the horizon and across the sheets of broken icebergs. He looks across the frozen waters and penguins and he looks to be at peace. The expression on his face seems like that of certainty. The polar bear seems to be waiting, but how can one be so sure? he floats along on his iceberg, not moving a muscle on his face, his arms or anything else in particular. Until, at last, the bear’s head raises and his eyes seem to widen. His gaze has remained distant and possibly more sure. However, what the polar bear sees cannot be seen from our distance. What he is thinking, we cannot be sure of. He keeps his head raised, his gaze constant as he treks across the gaps of water. One can see a figure from afar. Contrasted between the sun and horizon, there is an indistinguishable shadow. If it were only possible to communicate with the bear, one could be sure as to what the attraction could be. For now, we watch as he slowly makes his way across the ice. To follow and see would be a disturbance. For now, the only true distinction that we can make is that he is simply following his instincts.

Cereal

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 21:39:00 -0700

I’ve tasted the box that has no flavor
Tasted the ones that mush up later
Sweetened up what was already fine
Felt all the sugar creep up my spine

I’ve gotten prizes and gotten full
Can’t say I’ve never cheated, that’s bull!
I’ve had the sugars rush to my head
zappin’ and sappin’ me, makin’ me dead!

I’ve cut up my mouth, the tongue and the top
spilt it all over, every last drop
I’ve put in the milk, first and last
I’ve eaten it slow, savored it fast

Collected box-tops one by one
I’ve also stopped, never got it done
I’ve pulled the prize with the box half full
I’ve never cheated before that’s bull!

A Work In Progress

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 13:03:00 -0700

The painter spins his brush into an off white blob of paint from his make-shift pallet. Swirling it around and staring at two places at once, he finally smears the shape of an oval onto his canvas. He looks at his model as she sits and patiently she smiles from afar. The painter returns the gesture as he is filling in the oval he made prior. Quickly, he evens out the paint until the entirety of the oval is filled with nothing but the all white. The artist hastily dips his brush into his cup of water, then lifts the brush back up above the milky white water as lagging driblets find their way on the floor. The painter dips his brush into a soft blue blob of paint from his make-shift pallet. He quickly takes a few jabs at it, making sure to apply ample paint to his brush, and at the same time studying where to apply it. He glances up at the model’s eyes and smiles before looking back down at the white shape he had made just seconds before. He looks back up, as to study the gaze of his model one last time as he hovers his paintbrush inches away from the canvas. She smiles back and the painter finally jabs a dab of blue in the sea of white. A sigh of relief escapes his mouth as he puts his pallet down as if to rest.
“Is it finished?” Asks the model, and her smile softens up. The painter looks back at her.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Says the painter, smiling back as he covers the canvas.
“Can I see it?” Asks the model, her eyes widen. The painter still smiles, but this time looks ahead.
“Of course.” Says the painter as he walks towards the model.

Another Sonic Revival

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 01:16:00 -0700

I lay in the backyard, a contorted mess of cotton and skin, staring up at the night sky. Headphones on, eyes affixed upwards staring into an abyss. But a few seconds passed until a streak of light shot between the flecks of white littering above. The plinking of a harp whispering through my headphones was complimenting the strings of debris in the sky beautifully. The more stars raced across the sky, the more my breath fell shallow. The more my breath fell shallow, the more my heart thrust and wriggled. My eyes, wide open, were dumbstruck, staring directly at Cassiopeia. My body, a frozen slab of meat, was still as my mind raced about looking for a place to settle. And as Joanna Newsom sung in my ears, to go where the trees go, I remembered to breathe. And as I remembered to inhale the cold air of that 12:15 morning, my eyes, my heart, my mind and my body were all alone. As I stared upwards on the dewey backyard sofa, my eyes, my mind and my body all became transfixed towards one overwhelming colossus of a meteorite. I became bewildered for all five seconds during that running streak of light going across what seemed like all of the sky above me — all of my thoughts were taken away with it. Breath, emotion and sight taken by a rock that caught me by surprise. I wasn’t sure what to think, but I knew what I wanted — and as Thurston Moore sung in my ears, reminding me to memorize my lines, reminding me about my disconnection notice and what to read or write or say, I lay there for the next half hour, still staring and still impressed. By the time I could recover, I picked up by head, rested my eyes and walked into my home.

a letter to a friend

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 06:09:10 -0700

This is a letter to somebody
this is a letter to nobody
this is what I have done
and this is what you will do
this is the center
this is the end
artistic freedom
creative bend
This is a letter to a good friend
this is art for what it’s meant
if all that does matter finishes in the end
its what you make of it, to whatever extent

it’s a search, it’s an answer
it’s whatever you get
its a canvas in front of you
it’s the crazy man wanting to get through
it’s as simple as to want and to do

It’s as simple as not meaning to rhyme but rhyming
it’s as simple as bad lingual timing
it’s as simple as ying as simple as yang
it’s as simple as ending it all with a bang

what are you reading right now do you know?
a poem, a story or continuous flow
it’s naturally here, it comes and it goes
I hope it finds you, wherever it grows

these letters, these words, whatever they are
these symbols, these colors be they close or far
it’s fun while it lasts, but don’t overdo
just do what you do and have fun with it too

this is the best thing I’ve ever written
or is it the worst?
this is the worst thing I’ve ever written
this is the first

this is a letter to a best friend
this is a trip from here to the end
it’s continuos loops again and again
it’s acid, brother, I need not pretend

7/19/09

Sun, 19 Jul 2009 02:23:44 -0700

finders keepers

A Poem

Fri, 22 May 2009 14:59:00 -0700

Look at them all in a row
Do not touch, they’re all for show
Look at them stacked up all straight
Do not look, not in this state

Bile - 4/17/09 Draft

Mon, 18 May 2009 12:19:00 -0700

Rotting skin festers in front of my face
Caused by diseases nobody can trace
Fingers and tendons now all out of place
Permanent marks I can’t wish to erase

Melting teeth pool where my tongue used to rest
Molars too soft and too old to digest
Intestines and liver all covered in mold
However still working as they are told

Organs are soggy with overdue bile
Locks of hair wilt in fashionable style
Lungs dark and withered paralyze pumping
Acid filled belly – full – begins dumping

Grotesque mutation soon overwhelms me
Static decay as I sit jealously
Disfigured body that lowers esteem
Wont keep me out of this wonderful dream

The Trip

Sat, 16 May 2009 23:58:36 -0700

The coyote sings, it tries to impress
Its octaves cling onto tonal distress
Its vocal cords sear, entice, and depress
Its moonlit ballad too big to digress

Rhythm and harmony don’t mean a thing
To the hound’s night sonata fastened with string
Static streets stage the public performance
Confident concert of feigned importance

The Trip (As it is)

Thu, 14 May 2009 23:29:00 -0700

“These roads entice us,” said the Coyote’s carcass
The scabs clot his fur, keeping blood at its darkest
Suppose this prophet has something to send
I could lie about hearing, I could also pretend

Enjoying the traps that another forged
Across cracks and potholes, raindrop storage

Gasoline tank jealous for affection
Gasoline tank overzealous for direction
Little needle always hiding its true intention
Little needle always running from true perfection

Dissonance sings in perfect harmony
Melodies fight as a single army