Day 12,128

I awoke from my troubled sleep,
As I often do in the mornings.
The sun was high and bright as it poured its powerful light
Down our collective gullet.
I watched as a boy climbed on top of his car,
Flat on his belly like a slug.
He spun like a top and kicked his arms and legs.
Too early in the morning for such hijinks.
No coffee for me, I don't drink the stuff.
Just a splash in the face and a kick in the pants
And then I'm out,
Attempting not to melt.

Fragile

Things are fragile, no way around it.
When I deem something precious, I want to hold it and enjoy its luster.
Just for as long as I can.
With every sunrise more life is lost.
We get that much closer to the end of our ride.
I don't want to waste my finite minutes on trivia and scrutiny.
I want to breathe deeply the air as it flows around me.
To drink the wild concoction of a series of random events.
That is what it means to be a free man in this free idea we call freedom.
Unbound by chains both real and imagined by those who would imprison.
I am alive, and to live is to claw and scratch and spiral from enlightenment to hopelessness.
And vice-versa.
The sun will rise again soon and burn away whose time has come.
The rest will try to run forever.

Youth Decay

James slowly opened his bedroom door. He stood amazed and terrified as he witnessed a small man on his bed tossing around his freshly laundered and neatly folded t-shirts and underwear. The small man resembled a standard-issue garden gnome, complete with white beard and pointy red hat. Laughing like a jackal and with a crazed look in his eyes, the small man bounced furiously on the bed, whipping boxers and briefs like an all-star. James was quite surprised to see such an unnerving scene, especially in the place where he slept. Nightmares were sure to follow.

After taking a second to catch his breath, James closed the door. He wouldn't return to the room until his mother came home, where she discovered the aftermath of the small man's eruption. She of course thought James' story was bullshit, and blamed him for the clothing disaster. James grew sad.

And somewhere, the small man is still laughing.

Old Stuff: Starring Mark Wahlberg

The doctor sat across the table from him, a Dixie cup in each hand. She had the look of mischief in her eyes as she shook the cups like little maracas, rattling the pills within them.

"Do I have to choose?" he asked her.

"No," she said. "Never again."

She placed the cups in front of him, then expectantly crossed her arms and sighed. She was growing impatient.

These were pills in name only. They were theurgy suppressors: the ultimate achievement of man's dedication to science and logic. Designed to prevent any and all use of what Controllers believed to be magics, the suppressors were "built" by scientists and engineers brought together from every civilized country in the new world order. The perfect combination and dosage would eliminate esoteric sensitivity to the point of no return. The ghost of Joseph McCarthy would be proud.

"Can I see it again?" he asked. "Just one last time? I want to be sure."

The doctor grew agitated at his persistent and tiresome request, but she wasn't completely without mercy.

"This is it, Aldous," she grunted. "It's time to take your medicine. No more bullshit from you. Say your goodbyes."

She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and placed it on the table between the two cups. The paper was blank, except for a small pencil drawing of two interlocked gears at its center. He looked down at the paper and smiled knowingly as the gears began to move on the page.

"Goodbye, Doctor. Say hello to your mother for me."

Old Stuff: The Night I Was Sick

It was a pocket of time inhabited by a fevered state.

Movements back and forth that were performed by me and someone else who looked like me.

Dull pain and dizziness punctuated with shaking and mild hallucinations.

Neither of us, myself or my doppelganger, could find rest.

Why were there two of us?

Old Stuff: Milk's Best Friend

I trudged along the snow and ice covered sidewalk, carefully planting each foot to prevent unwanted slippage. The milk had been out a mere 20 minutes before I realized I'd forgotten to return it to the refridgerator and began my journey back to make amends. Freshness is important, you see. With a sure and steady pace, I would preserve the pure calcium in just a few minutes time. Unbeknownst to me, Oppenheimer, the neighbors' cat, had gotten word of this free-range milk and vowed to have it for himself. With a fury, he dug under the fence that divides our nations and purposely made his way for my door. At the first sign of ajar, he would have the milk. I was distraught. My stride quickened as the calcium called to me for rescue, a cat's throat is no way to go. My footing was unsure and treacherous, but I would not faltar. Oppenheimer must be stopped. I need milk. No vanity, necessity. This is my life, get your own. As I reached the house, Oppenheimer was disinterested in me, never removing his gaze from the doorknob. He was pretending to be cold, looking to gain sympathy from me, and access to the milky goodness. Not today, Oppenasshole. I reached into my coat pocket and produced a small, metal cube. The cube was shiny silver, and decorated with little red faces, all with different expressions. I held the cube out toward Oppenheimer and he glanced at me, bored and judgemental, then back towards the door. I managed to suppress a smirk as I pushed a small button on the top of the cube, causing it to spin and shift and grow until it finally popped. Where once was a cube now stood a 3-feet tall metallic cyber-dog, purple steam rising from it's newly formed body. The cyber-dog let out a grinding, robotic growl and opened it's jaws wide as a beam of purple energy burst from it's mouth. With obvious cat-like reflexes, Oppenheimer shot to his left, dodging obliteration by mere inches as the energy beam tore into the front of my house behind him. The beam ripped through the entire structure from front to back, exiting into the ground in my back yard. A singed, basketball-sized hole peered through every room. From where I stood I could see into the kitchen, where the force of the beam had shaken the milk and caused it to fall from the counter onto the floor. The calcium now puddled, a victim of the merciless progression of technology and industrialization. Defeated, I sat down on the front steps and sighed. The cyber-dog sadly clanged over, and laid its head on my lap. Good boy. Good boy.

Old Stuff: Call Me Ishmael

There's an ocean outside my window when I push back the curtain.
It shouldn't be there, dry land has been misplaced.
Adrift on a sea of questions and shaky memories, I begin to feel uneasy, and I reach for the opiate/elixir that steadies my focus and concentration.
Once filled with fresh gravitas, I can look out on the vast, unflinching waters and see further than ever before.
The future is no longer a lingering doubt, but rushing past me and reaching for my comet's tail.
From one end of the earth to the other, throughout all dreams and inspirations, my form is shifting and bouncing.
Do you see me?
I'm there, just in the corner of your eye, but only for a moment.
I have to be elsewhere.
There's an idea that eludes me.
I've a clear trail to follow, but this idea is experienced.
It shows wisdom in its ability to hide from detection and influence at the same time.
I must find it.
I will find it.
It cannot run forever.

Old Stuff: Nature Show

I stood before the lake for what seemed like hours undisturbed. The fish leapt higher and higher as the day grew long, never reaching the sun that comfortably cooked them to perfection. From the corner of my eye, I saw a shape. Large and bulky, the beast lumbered into view, emerging from the surrounding woodland. I was obscured from its view, having crouched behind a thicket of grass. Not frightened, just cautious. The beast moved closer and closer to the water, its brush-like snoot swaying back & forth just on the ground, creating large gusts of breeze and dust. The beast raised its round and mange-covered head, glancing quickly from side to side before thrusting its snoot into the water with a sloppy slurp. It drank its weight, exhaled an ancient heavy breath, and lumbered away. When the beast had its distance, I walked to the bank of the water, hoping to measure the giant footprints left behind. They were huge. Also huge, and lying next to the prints was a pile of shit. Worst I've ever smelled.

Old Stuff: Enter the Mind of a Lunatic

As my collection of years living grows, so does my knowledge of the world and all its thrills and frills. A certain by-product of this has come to my attention recently. I was always a cynical man, even when I was a wee tot seeing the funeral procession of Elvis Presley for the first time. The odd mixture of sadness and mourning thrown together with celebrity worship of a pagan false idol by millions of professed Christians was too much for my tiny infant brain to make sense of. That and the real problem of my families' dissolution was enough to teach me that everything can be broken, no matter how we try to preserve it. I learned (or concluded) that nothing was sacred. Not family, religion, country, love, Santa Claus, whatever. It's all there as fluff. The real meat seemed to be the pain that comes before and after an "occurrence." "Occurrence" referring to an event in one's life, such as a birth, wedding, graduation, etc. These are the things we constantly work towards and apparently live for, giving meaning to our ticking clock on earth. For me, as the cynical man-child I have been, these things don't hold much importance. Less and less as each decade passes over me. What are we really here for, I ask myself. Unfortunately myself is an asshole at times, so I never get an answer. My only theory is that, for me, it's the inevitable deterioration of things. My lust for life has faded as I've gotten older just as one's memory or physical capabilities go the way of the dodo. My interest in true expression is still strong, I think. Maybe stronger than ever. I come here and I spill my tainted blood onto this keyboard in the hopes that the translation comes out right. It feels good to write it, and I hope there's someone out there who's bored enough to take the time to read these words, no matter how ridiculous they may be. You do a great service to me imaginary mystery reader. I write for myself, and for you. CLINK. GLUG, GLUG, GLUG, GLUG. SEE GOD. PASS OUT.

Old Stuff: Across 110th Street

It all started when an old girlfriend I hadn't seen in 10 years showed up at my door. She was as beautiful as the day we met, maybe more so. Time moves differently in some places. She was wearing a back pack and carrying what I think was a stuffed horse. On her head was a rainbow colored ski cap with little straps hanging down on the sides. She never wore anything remotely like this when I knew her but it still looked really good on her. She said she was desperate, and had no friends or family to help her. I graciously offered to let her stay with me until she got back on her feet. Once inside my place she immediately began inspecting everything in sight. Walls, fixtures, sinks and tub. She had very stringent specifications to meet or else she just couldn't bear to rest here. Finding that things weren't up to code she went back outside and decided she would sleep in the small animal cage she had been dragging along with her. I threw my hands up in exasperation. I looked over to my right and saw my friend Samuel L. Jackson from his Jackie Brown days leaning against his totally sweet, pimped out Caddy. Sam simply shook his head, and in his infinite wisdom said, "Bitch is crazy."

Old Stuff: Happy Halloween

The needle, the needle. Into the vein it plunges, freeing her from the constraints of the boring "real" world in which she lives. As the poison liquid flows through her nervous system she begins to see only red, with a hint or two of darkest black. She can hear the blood running from her ears and she feels violently sick. Her body can no longer handle the strain so she begins to vomit in incredible amounts. The black goo she profusely expunges seems to have a life of its own as it gushes and splatters onto the floor in front of her. She screams. Glass begins to shatter and the walls buckle from the force of her inhuman wailing. The goo forms a pool in the shape of a spiral and begins whispering her name. Quietly, over and over again, whispering. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and steps forward, into the pool. She falls, endlessly and forever.

Old Stuff: Try-Tomorrow's Really Yesterday (Oddly Uplifting)

I feel like I'm about to lean in and get my first kiss from the cute girl I've been nervously holding hands with for months.
I look up and see the hazy sheen of the night sky and almost laugh to myself with glee.
Inhaling deeply, I let the cold air into my lungs to fill me with new life.
A rebirth in the time of sinking change.
Hidden, bundled, I walk among the others with a height not my own.
I look down upon them, not in judgement but with a renewed interest in our time together.
They don't know it but this is the greatest time in our lives.
The time when gods live next door and mythmakers paint the legends of tomorrow with colors our eyes can't yet see.
It's the day in, day out of it all.
It disguises the magic that flows between us.
Reach out for it and it will find you.
It's soft to the touch and moves through your fingers like smoke.
With just the right amount of silence you can hear its ancient singsong rise and fall and spin around us.
I hurtle through time at incredible speed, holding on for dear life to things and ideas and memories that may or may not exist.
Letting go is scary, and when I do I soar.
Backwards, forwards, side-to-side.
There is no direction or path that is unknown to me.
I am tethered to the ship as it seeks new stars to navigate by.
It's good.
I'm proud.
I bow respectfully.

Old Stuff: The Weak That Was

I'm wide open.
Painfully so.
After visiting the past with trepidation, living in the present with an apathetic sigh, and seeing the future as unknowable I am raw and exposed like a wound.
I cannot reconcile damage done with present stillness and normalcy.
Waking up with a smile gives way to a black mass of tar pulling me into my own chest. Not losing sleep, but having too much.
The chill is my friend.
I generally find solace in the icy breeze as it allows me to embrace myself, preserving my inner fire.
Not today.
Today I am simply cold.

Old Stuff: Spaghetti Words

This is life.
What you have is wonderful.
You are one of the lucky ones.
With the breeze gently caressing your face and the sun warming your toes in the sand.
Your movement, sublime and unhindered.
You walk the earth freely and without care or equal.
Smile and be joyous, the tightrope is narrow but your balance is sharp and purposeful.
Watch your step.
One slip and you become that which you fear.
Every action has it's opposition.
Everything has its anti.
Look around you and see what could be.
You could be that which is tread upon, stepping stones of the carelessly unaware.
Open your eyes, it's mourning somewhere.

Old Stuff: I Miss You

I picked up the cellphone and slammed it on the ground, shattering it into tiny tiny pieces. It made a cracking sound, followed by just a hint of electrical zapping. Normally I would never treat a cellphone this way, but the voice on the other end said things to me that sparked an uncontrollable urge to throw and smash. Such bullshit words that mean nothing to the person who spoke them. Just spewing lies to placate their sense of normalcy with no real regard for what goes on outside of themselves. We are such selfish people, without even realizing it. How many times have I spoken to someone the same way? When I made an attempt to sound comforting while really pushing those who hear away from me. I didn't really want to continue with these people, but I hadn't the balls to just say so. Either I spoke harshly or simply disappeared. The latter being the quickest and easiest way to solve a problem. Just pretend it doesn't exist. Cut that person from yourself with surgical precision, so as not to expose yourself to any trauma. It really works. Sadly, it really works. But, what's the alternative? I believe it's honesty. One of the most precious metals of all. The voice on the cellphone was not honest. But neither was I, and I hate us both for it.

Old Stuff: A Radio and Some Headphones

I'm riding a bicycle with no hands. I'm riding this way because my hands and arms are filled with stuff. Books, papers, tennis balls? Too much to carry, it's difficult to stay balanced on the bike. I get to where I'm going and I'm off the bike in a flash. Inside is what I believe to be a library. I am certain that I've been here before. I'm no longer carrying all the stuff and I don't know what I did with it. All I have is a radio and some headphones. I walk around a bit and notice a large man reading a newspaper staring at me. I have no idea who that is. Back outside I'm suddenly carrying stuff again, dropping it as I walk. Again, too much stuff at once. I get to my bike and find that the back tire has been stolen, along with a few back tires from some other bikes that are lying in the grass around me. This sucks. I feel powerless. I look around and see a guy in a parking lot riding around on his bike with only a front tire. He's very skilled and apparently the victim of the theft as well. What happened, I ask him. It's someone who rents bikes, he says back to me. They use the tires to make more money. I look around, unsure of what to do. Fuck it, I'll walk.

Old Stuff: Drifting

Sliding down a slippery trail.
A trail I'd been down a hundred times before.
My hands outstretched, like I was heading for home plate.
There are twists and turns, s-curves and figure eights.
It's dark, so it must be nighttime.
Or perhaps I'm underground, deep within an endless chamber filled with trails to all destinations.
Sliding along, I begin to lose confidence, and the curves become a little too tight.
My legs are flailing off the trail behind me.
I'm no longer in control and picking up speed.
Now I'm sliding from side to side with no way to right myself.
I spin to get myself in the correct position but it's too late.
I fly off the edge of the trail into the black that surrounds me.
I'm gone baby, gone.

Old Stuff: I See Before Me

Miles and miles of shiny people carrying shiny things.
Smells of every kind dominated by sugar and what I think is feet.
Must be leather.
Blaring rhythms and drumbeats, straight from European nightclubs.
In the middle of all the hubbub are children.
Children climbing and tumbling like primates.
Lost in the innocence of their youth and quietly being introduced to the desires of their parents.
Diabolical.
Commerce, greed, materialism, obesity, love, envy, impatience, satisfaction, longing, indifference.
Reach out and grab one, they're all around you.
All under one roof.
20% off.

Old Stuff: The Quest

The chatter has commenced when I make my entrance into the room. The four cacklers bark and squeal at each other in tones that sound both affectionate and competitive. Ugly creatures, these cackling bastards. Withered and rotting, they smell as though made of burning garbage. It's unfortunate, but we're all in the room for the same purpose. Whosoever possesses the final drop of titan's blood can potentially live forever. No guarantees, though. The blood can also bring torment to the bearer and all he's met or will meet. So, here it is I find myself. On yet another quest to find that which I neither want or need. But I intend to make the best of it. Any one of these horrid creatures would do great and terrible things with the blood, and since I find that distasteful it falls on me to kill them all. The blood materializes at the center of the room with a vacuous pop. Damndest thing I ever saw. I expected a bit more flair as in the dream that brought me and undoubtedly the cacklers to this specific time and place. The cacklers all rush towards the crystal sphere containing the blood, clawing and scratching each other like the animals they are. I smile. I've been able to run at the speed of light since I was fifteen years old, taught by my grandfather to slide through the visual spectrum like his father before him. I'm ahead of the cacklers with my hand on the sphere before they even realize what's happening. They all scream and wail in anger as I laugh and spit in their direction. With a final curse, I break open the sphere and pour the blood into my mouth, tasting fully it's bitter iodine. Convulsion, seizure, these words cannot describe the violent contortions that rend and tear my body from within. A burning begins to well inside my stomach. Growing and growing until I can contain it no longer. I open my mouth to scream and the heat erupts like a volcano destroying the fleeing cacklers, the room, the entire building around us. The heat expands further and further until my body disintegrates. In a final act of desperation, I will my spirit back into the visual spectrum. I am now light and color, unable to enter the physical world without a body. The titan's blood has given me eternal life. Not the life I expected, but at least there are no cacklers.

Old Stuff: Anatomy

It starts with the sparkles. They dance and spin about, all multicolored and insect-like. Vision is obviously affected, as focus begins to shift back and forth between the sparkles and the reality behind them. Like running through a vibrating three dimensional tunnel. At this point, the left or right eye may simply cease to function. Then a nausea, very much a feeling of hunger. Hunger that can't be satisfied because anything eaten will be violently vomited back out. Disorientation becomes a factor, as the combined might of the twisted vision and turning stomach are too much for balance to withstand. All this before the pain. When the pain comes, it comes in waves. Back to front, side to side. Pain that originates in the brain and can be felt through the entirety of the human body. A stabbing pain, internally piercing the nervous system as narrowing blood vessels constrict and deprive the brain of the blood it so desperately needs. Imagine, if you will, the worst external physical injury you've ever experienced. Now, imagine that pain inside your head, pulsating to the panicked beat of your heart. No rhyme, no reason. Just pain. The beast will have its way with you. Endurance is the only option.

Old Stuff: Balance

I'm on my knees
Beside me is a beautifully decorated Christmas tree
Glistening blues and burning reds bursting from the evergreen
In front of me on the ground are two spirals
One blue, one red
The blue spiral speaks of hope and understanding
It swirls and sways like a whirlpool, filling my center with a cool breeze
The red spiral knows only pain and anger
Its frayed edges are dangerous barbs that can cut with the slightest touch
I'm afraid of the red, I recoil from its piercing angles
The blue spins sadness and pulls me closer
The blue protects me from the weight of the red, but one cannot exist without the other
Overwhelmed with fear, I'm compelled to reach out to the red
Its vines grip me and encircle all that I am
My heart is pounding as I know nothing but darkness and redness
Furious, frustrated, terrified, grieving, hatred
I scream
A single blue light forms before me and begins to dance and twirl like a butterfly
Then another, and another
I am surrounded by thousands of tiny blue lights
They bounce and brush across my skin, breaking the blackening vines of my imprisonment
My arms outstretched, they carry me skyward
Through the belly of a rainbow, higher and higher until I touch the end of the universe
The end is clear to me, I can't see past it
The lights then bring me back, I'm on my knees again, tears streaming down my face
The blue and red spirals spin into one another and disappear, leaving nothing but their images in my memory
Beside me is a Christmas tree decorated all in black

Like a Sneeze

A slow and creeping reality, beautiful in its simplicity and hauntingly merciless.

Giving way to a brush of understanding and hope, as the inevitable acceptance takes hold and shapes and molds the resulting experience.

The voices rise in unison and push the tumor upward, toward a clean and natural light.

Keep the good stuff down, but expunge that which is unnecessary.

The scale only goes to 100.

Stop This Crazy Thing

The futile and unstable qualities of life are a major concern for me on a good day.

When things are going bad, man it's just hard to take a breath.

I try to find solace in the breeze, as it blows through the leaves and fills me with stories of other times, other places.

In the bright colors of flowers and the sound of the grass beneath my feet.

It all goes away in the end, to trouble over things that don't ask or require my attention is a wasteful endeavor. A poor use of my time and considerable riches.

But she haunts me, you know. They all do once they reach that place that's locked away tight, far from anything that might make it all worthwhile.

When touched by things that elevate, the slow descent is much like dying.

But dying's easy. It's the living without that kills.

The Year Is 2533...

...and at the back of the cave stands a large statue of a burly man apparently called Brickbeard. The astronaut moves gingerly around the statue, trying to decipher the runes carved into its base. The statue is taller than an average man, and has rough edges, as though smoothness was not a concern for the sculptor. In its right hand the statue holds a mighty scepter, and a silver shield embossed with a great spiral covers the right arm. The left hand holds a gruesomely decapitated head with an uncanny resemblance to William Shakespeare. The astronaut shudders. Studying the language of the runes, the astronaut suddenly remembers where she's seen it. Hundreds of years ago, science fiction writers created a story called Star Trek. In this Star Trek, a language was created for an alien race the writers called Klingons. This language is still practiced in certain underground circles to this day by many people, including a guy the astronaut used to date. He was a fun guy but ultimately too sad.

Reading the runes, the astronaut is puzzled by the statue's inscription:

"Ye who disturbs the long-deserved slumber of the All-Father Barnabus Brickbeard will now bear the burden he carried into life from the womb of his cursed mother. Despair!"

Just as the astronaut reads the inscription's last line, the statue rumbles and cracks. From a small split in the statue's forehead, a key shoots outward, and pierces the astronaut's head in the same spot. Her eyes roll back into her head and she begins to violently convulse. She tears at her clothes as she writhes and her body changes shape. Soft brown hair becomes black and dense and scratchy, her skin becomes pale and older. The word "Malice" burns its way across her belly.

Lady Brickbeard rises in a mist of sweat and blood. She screams as loud as the devil then stops. The key has left her forehead and rests firmly in the grip of her hand, she will never let it go. Naked, she spins and laughs, and runs out of the cave onto the surface of a large asteroid, unaffected by the lack of atmosphere. Her ship is ready where she left it and she flies into her future of both ultimate creation and ultimate destruction.

Deep inside the cave, the statue lays broken.

My Sunday

Sitting in front of the keyboard wrapped in spider-webs. Tangled and unmanageable, almost pulled backward by a stubbornly unseen force. Sounds and epiphanies screaming and yearning to burst forth and be born into a world that will loathe and fear them. An intricate and geometric structure that appeals to the eye of the subconscious. The gushing of waterfalls and brain-piercing explosions of vengeance and delight. A pause for refreshment, imbibing on things both cherished and forbidden. A satisfactory exhale as the potion takes form, bubbling with spark and power.

"Raise your glasses, raise them high!" "Without life, I'll surely die!"

No One Wants To Read Sad Poetry

There's a beautiful song playing on a piano in the distance.
It echoes with the sound of a bird singing, chirping, squawking.
The piano is calming, soothing the ache and loss I feel in this hot, hot sun.
I tilt my head and ride the music up and down, as violins sway in, and lift me high above uncertainty.
I look down at my desires and accept forgiveness and contentment as they crash away in a beautifully chaotic crescendo.
It brings a smile to my face and a race to my heart to let the music in to heal me.
I will emerge from the playback stronger and sadder and wiser than before.
The scars will last forever.

A Sidewalk Revisited

Wide and disappearing into the horizon. Leading nowhere but attractive and irresistibly walkable. The catch, however, is that someone has decided to leave all their goods and wares in the way, preventing me from traveling forward. Pipes, boat oars, piles of perfectly chopped firewood. These things don't belong on the sidewalk. A treacherous journey awaits me. Hopping and climbing, I move forward, always clearly aware of how stupid it is that all of this stuff is just laying out here on the sidewalk. What the hell is wrong with you people? Mountains of tattered clothing and large collections of cassettes prove to be difficult obstacles in bulk. I wish I could just snap my fingers and gain the ability to fly so I could be finished with this burdening need to be at the end of this fucking sidewalk, so I try. After a couple of snaps nothing happens, but I don't give up. I pick up a Phil Collins: No Jacket Required cassette and plow forward. There's gotta be a Walkman in this mess somewhere.