the creation of colin xeno fish: uniqueness

I recently had a revelation about why I feel the need to be unique, I was always attracted to the odd, the minority, the truly different. I blame it on an Idea I had at the age of 7 or 8, attending a birthday party.
Everyone was having root beer floats, but it was a big party, and was at the back of the line. By the time I got to the front, there was no more root beer. Trying to make the best of things I created the Hawaiian punch float. Not very good at all, and the other kids called me weird. Then came a thought to my mind that was the first really sad thought about the world I ever really had. I thought something like this. "It's not that weird. I am not the first person who has done it. its probably been done countless times. This world is so infinite that everything must have already been done, by someone at least." and that made me sad. I think it was then that somewhere in my mind something said no, we can do better than that, we can be unique.

doorknob (I've seen them part 3) (Final part up next wednesday!)

To be honest I am angry. At nothing in particular, in the greater scheme of things, perhaps mankind's scariest invention that. But angry, scrawling, angry, angry that this sentence is _______ . Fill in your own there, and accept the random that your mind or fate or whatever you want to call it comes up with. Or to terms with. Drunken with a sickened hate, my inebriated mind cannot recall what it was that I did wrong. I am sure it happened, even now, but I refuse to apologize. I might do that when I am sober, and progressing as a gear in that scariest invention. But now I am stopped, given paper before me a a jam, a clog stopping the fluid around me from over heating. So we shall see what happens, the gears stopped, the fluid fermenting, and what shall become of the paper? I am, for the moment consumed by this thing, whatever the blank is up there, not as an inner demon of possession but one of an ex lover. It no longer returns my calls, and I think of it often, and in this consumption, this drunken madness, I have knocked on its door. It is all contained, that is this paper, in that moment. Staring at the door knob, with the door dark, like everything else in this world, with blinders as to what is going to happen. Though I know it can't be good, my mind or whatever it is races. It races as though the turning of that knob is everything. The world blown away but to a door knob reflecting me daring, or more correctly not daring to imagine what will transpire. Just a look at myself, as I am now, a stopped gear not moving but overheating off the fluid fermentation. That this moment, however so brief, a break in the lines
            
             as such seems to last forever, for longer than the good times, that is, those we do not remember.Just keep turning the wheel of that endless cycle. So What Have I Done? I have knocked on the door of everything I do not understand, Unprepared to deal with what happens next, lest it be random, or just motion again. I was guided here by malfunction, a disjointed liquid courage, Yet to accomplish anything, before my time is up.
(it's a lot cooler on a lined sheet of paper....)

Apathist

If Mary died to syphilis,

Would it have all been part of god’s plan?

Or would it just be His Ignorance,

His omnipotent apathy,

For which she died?

I suppose the first’s too easy an excuse,

But there is no rehab for the opiate of masses.

And if epiphanies should come,

They are cured like rashes,

Ignored until they die.

They will not care until the pain is real,

And lying naked on their doorstep,

Bred of oblivious indifference.

And I suppose that’s the worst of it, indifference.

I am no cultist,

Nor an activist,

I am an Apathist.

I ran from that excuse,

Driven from the opiate,

I created my own side effects,

Without the high

Stained walls of blurred colored ‘sight’.

No, Instead I slept with apathy.

I was not happy, I was indifferent.

I flat lined in that same bed.

So here is my epiphany:

My fears, my realities, and all those things

I can never change,

I have had enough.

I’m tired of apathy,

And Skeptic of god’s plan.

I’m afraid he’s left the wheel for the sirens.

I’m afraid it’s too late.

I believe that one day,

At this rate,

We will lie down to accept our fate,

Lethargic in the face of death.

The flood again, of apathy not anger.

And the world will come anew,

And they will ask,

Why, like the Mayans,

We just gave up.

And their Lao Tzu will say onto them:

“they died without purpose,

Virgins to syphilis”

demonagogue creation story.

demon·a·gogue

 1.political leader of the demons,

2.(colloquial) winner of a Battle royal.

 a long time ago, before man was a even a thought in the back of anyone's mind, there existed two great powers that held dominion over the universe as we know it. Their names loosely translate from demonic to english as "life" and "time". Time was bored, and Life wanted to create. And so life set out to create the perfect creation, and he tried and tried, but his creations were static, and lacked meaning. they were simply instances. they were ideas entirely made by Life, and Life new he was imperfect. Time said that his creation must develop, it must become more perfect than its idea. And so Life, with times help created everything, not in a matter of time, as it was not measured, but he created everything. He created a world, he created light, a dome of light an infinite distance away from that world, and object, that would develop once set in motion. then time created a system, a line of which it could exist, in any of its forms, which time could look at.

Needless to say, it was a failure. And so Life tried again, and with each creation Time was more amused, and Life was more determined to achieve perfection. And so each time, once Life had deemed one a failure, he took it away from the universe. that was all he could do, create and destroy. And so he created more and more powerful creations, hoping they would become more perfect. Alas they were all ultimately destructive in their nature. Eventually they reached out to the dome of light, and destroyed most of them.this is when he had the idea of night and day.

This is how we came to be. us humans that is. Life had gone through countless creations and none of them worked. he experimented with alternate planes of reality, such as heaven and hell, to assist in their development. He even created god-figures to guide the development of the people. none worked.

The penultimate world to ours, known to us as Saturn had two gods. the manipulator of life and the manipulator of death.These manipulators  controlled the creations, the organisms. The Manipulator of life controlled whoever he so chose like a puppet, but he lacked the power to cause death. The Manipulator of Death marked people, sealed their fate. He mapped out key events that The manipulator of life could not change, and marked when they were to die. But they wee flawed Ideas. they had been created for their roll, not elected, and so did not work in opposition to each other. they worked like machines, they did not develop. Life did not like this. So he killed his gods, and made Earth. Earth was a strange concoction of ideas that life had had, and he gave birth to powerful beings called demons. These demons had what they called "the first demon war" to determine who was to be the manipulators. The rules were simple. last to standing get to reshape all the four planes of earth (heaven hell purgatory and mortal), how ever they like, and set into motion a creation of their own. As discourses on human nature tell us, they have failed. But this time, When Life came to take back everything he had created, the Manipulators said that there was hope. Perhaps, this group of people called man, with their history and acknowledgement of imperfection, would be the perfect group of demons for a second demon war, to determine new manipulators of life and death, recreating the world, keeping whatever it was they wanted from that past one. And life said yes. And in that moment, thousands of mortal humans became demons for what was later known as "the second demon war". In search of Demonogogue.

games I'm looking forward to:

Bioshock infinite

Fallout new vegas

Brink

...

that is all for today/

peacock's plume p.1

Mike Greenwood was driving home after a ten hour shift at the factory, when he casually glanced out of the window of his car to see a seemingly endless row of billboards on the West Bluntron highway. One particular billboard of the bunch caught his eye. Nothing special, just an ad for another pathetically predictable drama, but it was the release date was what he was interested in. March 13, 2090, the fifth anniversary of that horrible day. He pulled over off to the side of the highway and stared at the date on the board. It was only a week away. He slammed his head into the steering wheel, in such a way that the horn did not go off, as he hated that horrible sound, even through his silencing headphones, just the thought of it made him shudder. There he began to silently weep. Not for unpreventable things like death, no, he wept for something much more sorrowful. He wept for the terrible implications of deeds none but his own. After wallowing in self pity for just over an hour, he decided that instead of going home to eat, he would go out; anything to get away from the love can’t be for three sign, and drove off.

            He sat down at the table for two (the smallest they had) close to the door at L'oeil, French for the eye, around closing time. It was a small, rather isolated, place with no windows, and coliseum seating overlooking the kitchen. Fancy, but not shockingly frou-frou. In particular its walls were very bare, white; except a few cameras in the corners. People did not come for the scenery, they came for the food. The quality that Mike enjoyed the most was the quietness. The building was completely sound proof, giving it a sense of removed ambiance. He just could not stand loud restaurants. It was a bit expensive, though. There were twenty five some odd other customers in the building. Among them Mike stood out. In his grease stained factory worker clothes, (he even had his name tag on) he just stood out. It looked as if he could not afford to eat here. Of course those who thought that were right, he could never have gone here on his current salary, but he had some leftover funds to waste. The fact that he was still wearing the sound eliminating headphones did not help his oddness.  He was able to eat in silence and without much interaction with the waiters because he was a regular.

            He was about half done with his quiche, when a hooded man in a dark cloak walked in the door. His face was clouded in shadow by his large hooded cloak. It was almost exactly like looking in a mirror for Mike, a mirror that turned back time 5 years. After about a second of intense staring he decided that he was being paranoid and picked up his glass of the finest cabernet. The man turned around to shut the door. Mike saw, on the back of his cloak the small insignia of a peacock’s featherhead, that tiny little eye. Mike knew it all too well.

            He stared at the symbol incomprehensively. “How? Not here! Not in Bluntron! How could they have spread this far in these five years?” Mike thought to himself, mind racing. He heard a small click, and the three gunshots. The man had shot the 3 surveillance cameras in the restaurant. He had produced two revolvers from his cloak. There was uproar of fear from the customers.

            “Settle down” the man yelled, as he removed his hood. This revealed a mask, typical Peacock regalia. It was featureless and round with two eye holes. In green on the black mask there was a single, big heartbeat line as that of an EKG. “I’ve taken the liberty of padlocking the door shut…” “Just like a Peacock,” Mike thought to himself. “Using 20^th century technology to pull a heist." “…and no one gets out,” the man continued “until everyone hands all their valuables to me.” Guns still in hand he pulled out a bag.

            “No way in hell!” said a bystander. He produced a handgun, and five others did the same (not too uncommon in Bluntron, a very harsh city).

            “So stupid," thought Mike “guns won’t help against a Peacock.”

            The man raised his mask just enough to reveal his mouth. He chuckled, breathed deep, and then let out an extremely loud wail. It was 10 times as loud as a gunshot. The acoustics in the building caused the noise to bounce back and forth, resonating throughout the restaurant. Mike spat his wine. Even through the headphones it was the second loudest noise Mike had ever heard. At least half of those standing fell to the ground, and those with guns lost their aim to block their ears, and that was all the man needed.

            “Why noise? Why did his trait have to be that horrible noise?” Mike thought to himself as he uneasily felt a massive tingling sensation on his upper back. His own was returning.

            Six gunshots later the man had killed all the distracted gunslingers. “Why did he have to kill so loudly? There are so much better quietly efficient ways to- No! I will not think like that again!” Mike weakly willed himself.

            The man held out his bag again and said “any takers?” That was the last thing he said before he died.

            Mike stood up and began to thrash about as if trying to throw something off his back. “Please, no!” He yelled. In his face he had a look of raw dementia and horror. It was too late. Thirty two cord-like tentacles shot out of his back. Four flesh-tone muscle wires went straight down the robber’s throat; completely mutilating his vocal cords, burst out of his neck, then snapped his spine. Simultaneously the other twenty eight tentacles wrapped themselves around the heads of everyone else in the room but Mike. Within half a second all were dead, necks snapped.

            Mike stared in terror at the horrible efficiency of himself. There had been no screams. No additions to those of the past. His tentacles knew that was how he wanted it. He looked around at all the bodies, real people he had killed, then up at the florescent light fixtures, and heard a faint hum over the room full of death. As he stared at the lights, he realized that this was as close to sweet, sought-after silence as he was ever going to get.

            In the back of his mind he heard it coming, coming back to haunt him, hundreds of screams, the screams of those he had killed. The headphones were no use. He took them off and slammed them into the ground “Useless!” The screams swept over him, like a wave of dread. Those horrible, horrible noises, came back to him, and crushed him with the weight of knowing how many he had killed. “How could I have coped with this much death, coped and continued to kill, so long ago? Why couldn’t I've stopped, stopped before she was dead?” He accusingly asked himself.

            The last scream struck his mind. It was the dying scream of his wife, impaled through the stomach with a tentacle. And the scream stayed, scarring his mind just as it did five years ago, spawning his hatred of loud noises. He screamed, but never louder than she did, as much as he tried; “It was an accident! You weren’t supposed to be there! This isn’t how it was supposed to be!" begging for her forgiveness, never to get an answer, but her scream. He laid there mourning for a while.

            Mike got up, the tentacles had retracted by now and he was no longer sad, now he was angry; angry not only at himself, but also his mentor, a Peacock. He was not always this way, there was once a time when he had killed no one, and was innocent. A time before that man had twisted him into what had killed his wife. He hadn’t known what to do with his powers before his mentor. Things just happened. Then he came and reshaped Mike; made him a tool of his own gain. The death of his wife woke him to what he had done. Now, five years later, Mike planned to reshape his mentor in a completely different way.

            Noticing that his shirt had thirty two quarter-sized rips, he walked over to his assailant. He took off his shirt, replaced it with the man’s, and stole the cloak and mask. He removed his nametag and put it in his pocket. The man's shirt was a little big on him but it’d do. He stared at the man, who was still clutching his guns in death; Mike had killed him so fast that his muscles were still tense. In closer examination, they looked like very nice pistols, but they wouldn’t help him where he was going. In one of the pockets inside the cloak there was a small pager-like device which read “Program complete”. Mike tossed it aside and checked the other pocket. There was a ticket and a small note that looked hastily written. It said “Church 5^th Wednesday @ 8 pm ‘spoils’”. Tomorrow night. He would atone for his wife’s death; atone the way he was taught how. He walked out the door with one thing in mind; if he was liable to kill those around him, he would kill the Peacocks, all of them.

to prove I've got taste in rap:

quote time #1

a few of my favorite quotes.

"If history is to change, let it change. If the world is to be destroyed, so be it. If my fate is to die, I must simply laugh"- Magus, Chrono trigger.

"I have only one way to live. It doesn't allow for special cases. A coin toss perhaps. In This case to small purpose. Most people don't believe there can be such a person. you can see what a problem that must be for them. How to prevail over that you refuse to acknowledge the existence of. Do you understand? when I came into your life, your life was over. It had a Beginning, a middle and an end. This is the end. You can say things could have been some other way. But what does that mean? they are not some other way. they are this way. You are asking me to second say the world Do you see?"- Anton Chigur, No country for old men.

"Only those who attempt the absurd will achieve the impossible. I think it's in my basement... let me go upstairs and check."- M. C. Escher.

 "who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,"- Allen Ginsberg, Howl

"There is no spoon"-Orphan monk, The Matrix

"I am Jack's wasted life"-Narrator, Fight Club

"And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say:  "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all''--
If one, settling a pillow by her head, 

Should say: ``That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.'' -T.S. Elliot, Lovesong Of J. Alfred Prufrock

"Freedom is the freedom to say 2 plus 2 equals 4...

To die hating them, that is freedom...

Freedom is slavery"-George Orwell, 1984

""All right then," said the Savage defiantly, "I'm claiming the right to be unhappy.""Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence.

"I claim them all," said the Savage at last.

Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. "You're welcome," he said."-Aldous Huxley, Brave New World.

"A semi-circle of little boys, their bodies streaked with colored clay, sharp sticks in their hands, were standing on the beach making no noise at all."- William Golding, Lord of the Flies.

"In this town, you can buy lives with money. Make enough money some day, and you can buy mine." Suigetsu, speed gapher, to a boy after hanging his father.

"No reason to get excited"
The thief, he kindly spoke
"There are many here among us
Who feel that life is but a joke

But you and I, 

we've been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now
The hour is getting late"- Bob Dylan, All along the watch tower.

"People aren't supposed to look back. I'm certainly not going to do it anymore. I've finished my war book now. The next one I write is going to be fun. This one is a failure, and had to be, since it was written by a pillar of salt. It begins like this: "Listen: Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time." It ends like this: "Poo-tee-weet?""- Kurt Vonnegut, slaughterhouse five.

"I killed you, Mister Anderson, I watched you die... With a certain satisfaction, I might add, and then something happened. Something that I knew was impossible, but it happened anyway. You destroyed me, Mister Anderson. Afterward, I knew the rules, I understood what I was supposed to do but I didn't. I couldn't. I was compelled to stay, compelled to disobey. And now here I stand because of you, Mister Anderson, because of you I'm no longer an agent of the system, because of you
I've changed - I'm unplugged - a new man, so to speak, like you, apparently free."-Smith, The Matrix Reloaded

sitting on an empty street, in the dark (I've seen them part 2)

I won’t lie,

It has a certain appeal.

Strange at first, maybe

A bit eerie, but appealing.

Yellow. *snicker* yellow light.

From the endless row of lamps

At this ungodly hour

The only illuminated path not his own.

Alone from him,

And those who would scorn me for saying

“Him” and not “Her”.

Totally alone, with lamps

And a yellow path

Cold maybe, but part of the appeal.

The perfect track, if you ask me.

Run as fast as you want,

You’ll have to return home by sunrise,

And so you do, thank you.

On your own planet

One of yellow, lamps, paths, as far away from god.

(Oh you get it now?)

Well here’s my tracks.

I have run here before

On different blocks with similar houses

Sometimes you just need to run.

Run as far as you can

Run till you pass out looking up

Dark and alone in the starless sky.

It may not seem calculated,

Destined or even thought through.

Oh yes you will flicker, you will crash, and

 Most of all you will get up.

The scars will heal,

But don’t sleep

Think, dream, awake, alone

Yellow.

Make it real as paper does,

Waver, fall, bleed

Your soul into this world

Of your own alone

Because you can

There is no one

Not even me, to tell you

Things like gravity

Run your path alone

And, in short, don’t be afraid.

Don’t live in constant apprehension of what may happen,

For you are alone.

Your blood Your tears

Your dreams Your gravity

Your path You’re alone

To see them through

Don’t sleep

The sun will rise,

Taking from you a thousand places

Your mind can take you

But there’s a thousand more,

And I guess that’s the appeal to it.

back by popular demand! The Subway Musician!

TAP TAP TAP

His headphones waving in the air

The drum solo is over

Back to the chorus

Oblivious to the passengers around him

He is some where else

A music hall perhaps

His silent lip-syncing

Makes no sense to me

But his unseen audience is awestruck

I’m sure

Straddling the rail

As if it were a mike

TAP TAP TAP

On the crowded subway

He is bumped by a passerby

And stops for a moment

But the crowd wants more

And he cannot deny them

TAP TAP TAP

His foot is heard over the roaring of the tracks

It stops

He looks over at me

But his eyes make no contact

As he stares into the sea of fans

It’s a sentimental moment

Or the best line in the song

For his lips are moving slower now

The beat is back and he turns his head

TAP TAP TAP

His subtle hand movements

And the slight bop of his head

Conduct an unheard orchestra

That knows what to play at the push of a button

TAP TAP

The amps go silent

As he looks out the window

And the train reaches the station

It is his stop

The Subway Musician steps off without a bow

wet flowers (title pending, first draft for creative writing)

Wet Flowers.

I have only been to cemeteries three times in my live.

The first was Arlington cemetery In D.C. in eighth grade. Certain sections were tombstones of all different shapes and sizes, mostly big, honoring fallen heroes, I suppose. But the majority of the sections were crosses. Endless rows of crosses. Thad run out of space for big ornate tombs for the heroes, our guide had said, now they were all just crosses. I suppose they didn’t have a choice when it happened.

The second was in West Virginia, Mt. lookout cemetery that summer. It was much smaller than Arlington, just the families that had lived in that small town their whole lives I guess. I saw the grave markers of my father’s family going back and back and back. I saw what seemed to be my great-great-great-grandmother, if I could read the moss correctly. I saw my great grandfather, Potter Fish, had died at the age of fifty, and I’m told his brother younger.  I suppose he hadn’t put much thought into it, where it was he would be.

The third was at the end of my sophomore year. My parents were miles and miles away, and I had nowhere to be till 9, so I went for a walk.

I came across a cemetery. There was a lady at the gate who was leaving as I was coming in, so she left the door open. This cemetery was large, and ornate, rolling hills of tombstones of all shapes, sizes and colors.

I saw before me to my left the Jewish section. There was I sign nearby that said something in Hebrew, ‘cemetery’ I guess. So I walked through the tombstones all Isolated from the others, void of uniqueness, except that we knew they were Jewish, and that they had sisters and fathers who lay beside them, with their name. I wonder if this was how they wanted it to be. Defined by faith, I guess that’s not that bad, if they were faithful.

When I had finished looking at that section, I realized I was alone. There was no one left visiting relatives or friends. Then I realized that I was an intruder, I knew no one here, and had no one to mourn for. I walked on.

I walked into a bigger, older section atop a hill. These dates went back to 1870. They had family graves and were ornate, gargoyles, and angles giving scriptures, all cracked by earthquakes since. I guess no one bothered to fix them. I suppose no one put up the money.

The sprinklers came on. I was an intruder. I guess I missed closing time. That’s one of those thing I had never thought about, sprinklers in a cemetery. I guess you just think that it tends itself, when you put a body into the ground with the embalming, it embalms everything around it. That the tombstone never changes.  Only the flowers blow away. But the sprinklers came on. Not in my section, and I didn’t get wet. So I kept on walking.

I walked atop a hill and saw before me all the sections that this cemetery covered. I wondered if there were many sections that were older. I wondered just how old they were. I saw several large marble structures, with boxes for the dead, all in columns and rows, like a great filing cabinet. These were more recent, they weren’t filled out. I wondered if they had run out of room.

Then there came a great slapping noise, of water striking against stone, but mechanical, beated-out. It went away and I kept walking, then it came again. This time I saw it. A tomb stone, a great pillar of some fancy rock, newish, had been placed only a foot or two in front of a sprinkler. The great Smack of this methodic system of sustaining life, hitting the back of this poor man, forever, overwhelmed me in this instant. I figured that I was the only one that had ever stayed past closing in a cemetery to watch the cold punishment of this unfortunate man. I was the only person to see the gifted flowers drenched, and the only one to hear this horrid noise. I suppose it was the noise of death.

It was, to me, the most profoundly depressing thing I had ever seen.

The Last Words of the Imperfectionist

Ah, there it is. I see it coming, the moment I’ve had to wait for.

So what is there to say?

Did I want it to be different?

Did I want an entourage?

Did I want the press?

Did I want something to die for?

Did I want my final words to be clear and loud and profound?

Or did I want to end it quietly, alone,

And have them say that I went peacefully?

I dare not know.

What they shall be, they shall be.

Nothing more and nothing less,

Imperfect.              

And that’s good enough for me.

So let’s begin.

My life was different then I could have imagined,

Not one thing entirely obvious, entirely fated, or entirely thought out.

It was not solid, but I was not free.

Life always seemed more viscous.

Not completely clear, or opaque,

It just was.

Imperfect.

There were things I liked, and those I didn’t,

Through my clouded senses.

But I saw those few absolutes that I felt,

Felt wrong, and so now I reject the unrejected.

I abjure the hum of fluorescent light.

That drowns out the thoughts of the few,

The minority voices in the back of their heads,

A hundred lives gone to its tides,

They don’t get to talk.

I abjure the silence of things unsaid.

That both parties know exclusively,

The stifling grasp of rules that neither have to follow,

An awkward dance,

They must see to its completion.

I abjure the thesaurus.

That speaks words are only other words,

The definition in circular logic,

All synonyms of antonyms,

They speak in terms each other does not know;

And again I abjure the thesaurus.

That tells perfect and imperfect are opposites,

The contrast of grey and white or gray and black,

It claims is absolute,

It is wrong.

I abjure apathy.

That is not the point,

There is not just one shade of grey,

Imperfection is not nothingness,

But they don’t care.

I abjure tomorrow.

That it will never come,

The hollowness of this line,

Its lack of existence,

I will never get to be there.

But I’ll leave that to the future.

In the past I lived in a world of one dimension.

Just a posed question,

Yes or no.

Black or white.

Clear or opaque.

Solid or fluid.

Right or wrong.

 But what of Grey?

What of viscous?

 What of Maybe?

These words are uncertain.

These words are colorful.

These words are Imperfect;

But not neutral.

They are anything,

They are everything in between,

Yes, they are not absolute,

But they are real.

They are made by us.

And of us.

I was Imperfect!

And I understand that now.

So I will not ask for absolution.

In this, my final moment.

pancakes?

How It's Baked: Pancakes from H. Caldwell Tanner on Vimeo.

I guess we've been doing it wrong....

rant poem#1 (I've seen them part 1)

 (fun little poem....Imagine my voice yelling it loudly...first of the three poems from which my work in progress "I've seen them" is on", I'll post the other two in the next two weeks.)

I've seen them,

I've seen them running,

going through there whole lives doing nothing,

leaving words unspoke

regretting each coming moment

thinking: i should be at point B

what the hell's wrong with A?

running in circles

spiraling downwards

they just keep running

knowing they don't want to be there,

they want to be somewhere else,

not thinking: what do I do when I get there?

they run on blindly into the decent

focused on their watches

and not their surroundings

they are lost with their devices

I've seen them but no cartographers

It's already been mapped put

the track they run at night,

without light without senses

the same futal motion 

the same fatal motion

in circles obtuse, pixelated

yes I've seen them,

keeping a tally to themselves

a list of failures

stretching on and on

that no one remembers

and I'm sure that death doesn't give a shit

Tally tally tally all writing oblivious

to everyone elses'.

they are all the town idiot

the crier, the tragic hero.

Fuck that!

don't be afriad of whaat the goddamned homelessman thinks of your trousers,

all he wants is your pockets!

I've ran myself into the ground,

not that I have the scars,

or that I don't care,

but when my hamster wheel is empty,

it's cause I'm gone,

not that I'm free,

or that I'll ever be,

or that there is anyone to blame

but you and me and they and we.

So why do you run the track,

Like a messenger with your tallies?

If the eternal footman doesn't care,

why should you, and

what are you running for?

I'm not saying stop to smell the roses,

not that there is much to look at

or that you should laugh as you skip,

or any such nonsense,

just that inn this world without cartographers,

fuck the alarm clock, don't even hit snooze,

slow down and take all you can,

and leave behind all you can, 

cause I've seen them, but not them all

I couldn't care enough to have possibly seen them all.

so don't care enough to carry your tallies into the grave.

...

I said "Quit Running!"

all fifty states. off memory I swear.

1. California
2. Alaska
3. Hawaii
4. Oregon
5. Montana

6. Wyoming
7. Nevada
9. Washington
10. Arizona

11. New Mexico
12. Texas
13. Oklahoma
14. Kansas
15. Arkansas

16. Louisiana
17. Florida
18. Mississippi
19. South Carolina
20. North Carolina

21. West Virginia
22. Virginia
23. Massachusetts
24. Rhode Island
25. New york

26. New Hampshire
27. Pennsylvania
28. New Jersey
29. Maryland
30. Maine

31. Delaware
32. Vermont
33. Indiana
34. Kentucky
35. Illinois

36. Michigan
37. Minnesota
38. Colorado
39. Ohio
40. Iowa

41. Idaho
42. Utah
43. Nebraska
44. Missouri
45. Alabama

46. Tennessee
47. Georgia
48. Connecticut
49. North Dakota
50. South Dakota.

see... I can do politics.

I blog for the future. I blog for the past.

I blog to document my self, as I transform.

as I once said to a woman, Identities are ephemeral.

if you have no idea what that means, look it up via the internet.

my identity is ephemeral.

I suppose the only constant is the past.

so be it,

I will write my past,

via my thoughts,

through this blog,

for the future.

I once complained about no one understanding me.

foolish.

I do not understand myself.

welcome.

you have entered my matrix.

my point of no return.

I hope your decision was worth it.