

JESUS CHRIST!

By RRRoze

Published by Love & Death Press

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Copyright 2012 Love & Death Press

This book is dedicated to tomorrow's beloved.

LUCIFER, OR THE ENERGY OF LUCIFER, THE WHITE LIGHT OF KNOWLEDGE, IS HELD DEARLY IN MY LEFT HAND. MICHAEL, OR THE ENERGY OF MICHAEL, THE WHITE LIGHT OF UNCONDITIONAL LOVE, IS HELD DEARLY IN MY RIGHT HAND. I LOOK ABOVE TO CHRIST, OR THE ENERGY OF CHRIST, THE GOLDEN LIGHT, AND I KNOW ALL IS ONE.

A Sliding Glass Door

Step inside of my writing. Behold the electricity of thought. Admire the chaos of words. Become part of this. Take a look into a reflection and imagine what it truly means. If you cannot find a meaning, do not ask me where the meaning you desire has gone; ask yourself. That is the purpose here. Please think. Examine the answer you give. Take a look at yourself from my eyes. Or a look at me from my eyes. Or either of us in the image of a mirror, as it is. Indulge in a poem. Never-mind form. Form is not often a concern. Words are what matter. They come in ones and twos and threes, or in sentences of many. Words can be poetry. They can be a story. They can be a reflection like one finds in glass, water, windows, and mirrors. That is the notion of this devotion. Mirrors are my love. When words and mirrors meet, heaven ensues. The true seeker can find inside this book the specific boundaries to their personalities; what offends and what intrigues. The more thought, the more theory, the more reality, the more understood; a bombardment of words, and thoughts, and nothingnesses, and everythings, whatever. The more thought you put into a mirror is the more thought you are putting into your world. Behold your writer. Behold yourself. We are one. Every word was written with you in mind. Whoever you are. Whatever time you hail to. This was written for you.

Enter. I have provided little guidance further than an incomplete table of contents. It is up to you to make your own sense of this.

Use strength to challenge mountains/ Do away with the dark/ Your selfish heart/ Is a shadow in the water/ Take what is yours/ From the eagles claws/ Nothing is certain/ Stoke a proactive soul

A hermit in the past/ Eyes wide open closed/ Inhale the new mist/ Do as you now intend/ Strong of will and wands/ Walk the path to calm

Human condition anxiety pain/ Future better brighter future/ Nothing is easy/ Do what you know you must

Desire work hope effort/ A good balanced omen

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Writing Found Within: Tina's Mirror; Broken Glass in the Dirt; 10:52 Through the clock-glass; Richie's Mirror; Riviera Glare; Autism Manifesto: Hail to the Unknown; Control; A Disturbed Puddle in the Street; Shattered Image in a Frame; My Better Half; A Frosty Window; Something Alien; Floor Reflecting Fluorescence; Illuminated Weather; Young Beasts; Ugliness in the Mirror; The Shooter; Something Alien; 35 & Nine; Follow Us into the Mirror; The Tale of the Monday Morning Nightmares; Inauguration Day 09; New Glass; Lucid Birthday; Some Subliminal Refuge

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When allowed to be who I truly am, a creature in need of permission to act naturally, I burn. I burn like the walls of your oppression. I burn like the trees of my mind's horizon. Sometimes I burn like backyard fireworks and sometimes I burn like a shopping mall. I can burn like the kitchen stove. Or I can burn like a molotov cocktail shattering on the riot cops. I burn like the pheonix would, were it a lion and not a bird. I burn like the fire of passion and desire. I burn like an anxious cigarette. My heart burns like a flaming shot of rum. I burn others. I have burnt my mother. I burn like cosmic radiation. I burn like a battered combustion engine. I burn like a witch tied to a stake. I burn like Ulysses. I burn like the funeral pyre of a viking king. I burn like the Sun's reflection on Venus. I burn like arson only more heinous. And like every flame must, I burn out.

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Outcast human standing trial/ Bewildered heart so luminous/ Uncertain essence of a starchild/ Though others hearts remain idled;/ Fascinated by Sirius/ Outcast human standing trial/ Biding their time for a while/ Watching a cat through the 'crisis'/ Uncertain essence of a starchild/ By whom all shall be beguiled/ Beguiling the gregarious/ Outcast human standing trial/ Unfamiliar and self-styled/ Situation precarious/ Uncertain essence of a starchild/ To those in the dark a smile/ "Enjoy the age of Aquarius"/ Outcast human standing trial/ Uncertain essence of a starchild

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I'M LOST / I'VE BEEN LOST/ A LONG TIME NOW/ Made a home/ In the unknown / A downward spiral/ Of trees I sees/ Aint ever gonna/ Find my way home/ Don't know/ Where I came from/ I can hold my place/ In this chaos/ But can't see past/ Whirling surroundings/ I'm lost/ I been lost a long time now/ I came your way/ For however many days / And I'm gone again/ Life is a breeze/ Of skeezy schemes/ I'm on crack/ This world is wack/ Yet I affect/ Every motherfucker I met/ In some dumb way / Every fuckin' day / A razor blade/ Can cut away/ Me from time/ I'm not even here/ I'll catch you/ On the flip side/ Now I kill time/ And I remind/ I'm not in my mind/ I walk on/ instinct/ And rule in chaos/ Over nothing and no one/ Only myself/ Not everyone/ Knows this/ Always with reactions/ I'm so dull to you/ You don't hear me/ When I talk to you/ I'm so dull to you/ Don't mind/ I'm out of my mind/ I'm lost/ I been lost a long time/ now/ The whirling trees/ And drug disease/ Can't compete/ With the brain rot/ From too much speed/ Forget what I read/ Holes in my thought/ From drinking Dex/ I'm lost/ I been lost/ A long time now

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It's bad / Mind stretched thin/ These thoughts/ Consume/ These days/ I am in

Other people's needs/ Beg on their knees/ Cannot understand/ Elastic vibrations/ As they demand/ From me;/ A normal man/ Body working slow/ Thought, action, speed/ Difficult transaction/ I am only a shell/ That would be/ A man/ Could have been a man/ Few others believe/ Circumstance severity/ I'll do/ What I can/ Pretend I'm a man/ It's worse / I'm a demon/ Of my own damn creation/ To bleed upon normality/ The only activity

Girls destroyed: four / This fucking demon roster/ Through sexual contempt/ 4 minds have been wrecked

For me/ No hope/ But death/ To be free

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Addict________herbs uppers hallucinogens  
Addict__________kept in demand  
Addict________by alcohol  
Addict____real life downfall  
Addict________the chosen path  
Addict__________of adderal  
Addict__________________years ago  
Addict__effective this day  
Addict________stuck in these ways  
Addict can't fathom change  
Addict_____________junkie flunky  
Addict_____________freedom fighter  
Addict________light it cook it crack it  
Addict________life of a lighter  
Addict..........herb  
Addict_____forever's crutch  
Addict_____uppers  
Addict___________adrenaline lust  
Addict___________hallucinogens  
Addict________________________psychedelic touch  
Addict_alcohol  
Addict________destruction for all  
Addict________real life downfall  
Addict_____the chosen path  
Addict_____that doesn't seem to end  
Addict_____the chosen path  
Addict_________with no destination

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Tina's Mirror

Casual implies formal was an option. At least at other times. A yin-yang doesn't always need the dots. I feel dull. An oscillating fan acts like an electron but I cannot remember in what way. Some memories are best forgotten. What could I represent? One time I had two bandanas. I put one on my head and the other I wrapped around my left bicep. Playing a piano at a party a girl asked me, "What's the cause?" She told me bicep bandanas have causes and I could give mine a cause. I was fairly excited about this. But I do not have many causes. Once we threw a cabinet into a fire. It had a mirror on it. We sat around the fire and a friend propped up the mirror to look into it while it burned. It would fall and he would prop it up again. For some reason the medicine hutch part of the cabinet was made of some indestructible material and none of it burned. Well, at some point I dropped the mirror and did not prop it up again. Pretty sure I had to explain why the matter was not important and explain why the person who cared was a sally ass for giving a shit. Caring is simply not cool. Anyway. We sat and talked about bitches, cuz that's what we do, it's all we do. We all got going about this chick I was macking around that time or had recently gotten with and these guys kept going on about how she's a bad idea and I shouldn't mess with her. And as I spat out, "I'm not too worried about Tina," as I said "Tina," even, the mirror cracked. This made me bite my tongue.

Oh scenery/ My poem to scenery/ This access to scenery/ Everything I see/ The people and trees/ These cars and these walls/ People are not characters/ They are scenery/ This series of roads/ I've so grown to know/ What vengeance on the past,/ Could it be,/ To go and change my scenery?/ New roads and trees/ And peoples to sees/ To see something else/ Out back/ As I smoke cigarettes/ Would be an honor to scenery/ Hilly tree greenery/ Little airport winter backdrop/ Monotonous this/ Has to stop/ Used till board/ Board and sick/ Sick of people/ Oh scenery

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Whipped like cream/ Fluffed like froth/ Answers they come/ From seemingly above/ Reacting to signs/ Resenting them, too/ Realistically speaking/ I'm not turning blue/ Turning blue as reaction/ To these problem's distraction/ Would be unrelenting/ Instead it must flow/ And cater to change/ From the unexpected expected/ Deranged/ Enraged/ Morose/ Drunk/ Disgusted/ Fed up/ And reacting/ This was about a girl

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Razors in my head/ Nights I'd rather be dead/ Disgusting emotions/ Wanting to vomit/ Going to sleep/ Lying on razors/ Feeding my cravings/ A bleak predicament/ In absence of love/ Sleeping for safety/ Sleeping but hardly/ Enraged and in pain/ Razors in my head/ Oh for this absence/ How did this happen?/ I feel this for another/ She as sick as myself/ Who has destroyed myself?

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Flowers and pickles/ Hugs and tickles/ Lovers in a meadow/ Soaking up the sun/ Eating sandwich picnic/ Napping until the sun's gone/ Loving and laughing/ Rolling around and making love/ All day/ Until the sun is gone

666/

The razor blade haunts me/ Looming over head/ Like a drug habit/ It's watching me always/ It's waiting for me/ The razor wants my attention/ The razor has it out for me/

Out the corner of my eye/ It's always there/ On the table

Waiting for me/ To do what I will/ Making itself available/ Whenever I'm ready

Considerate/ Reliable/ Razorblade/ Waiting for me/ To do what I will

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Broken Glass in the Dirt

Parades used to utilize ticker tape. Radicals are one of a kind by definition. Swiss cheese can bite me. Single blade razors suck. Waste baskets are an acceptable medium for many rejected unmentionables. The feminine figure can go to shit and often does. So perfect and beautiful can take such a turn throughout life. Creating aged masses of bagged fat, loose skin, and an overall undesirable package of female. As I have perceived, a much more drastic change of physical appearance than a man takes on with age. That sucks. I've been single for six hours. How will I get vagina I wonder. The United States is bullocks. My state is bullocks. My town too. And our foreign policy is bullocks as well. Republicans suck. Some blotted out name is my princess I guess. People can suffer. Oh, I remember why that name's blotted out. Oops. Moving on. People can suffer. They don't have a choice. How can a spider live so much better than me? Oh yeah. Pigs know they will be slaughtered. I miss Kristy. I hate Carla. I love Carla. Janessa got away. I am sorry Court. I fear Winnebago's. Life would be a lot easier if an asteroid destroyed the planet. We don't deserve this. I just want some more ass before I die. This is a problem. VaJayJay is taking over my brain. I can't think about much else. I need a princess to complete me. Tibetan monks lay bodies on the rocks for the birds to eat. Fuck vagina and fuck bitches. I don't need it. A foldable rake is a good idea. Revenge is silly. Ignorance is bliss. Knowing burns. Nomadic for life. I will not fear paradox and confusion. I hate sour shit. Sugar products are a pain in the ass. Getting hit is above everything. Earning pissed me off as a youth. Alien movies.

A crimson red pride/ Overtook this country/ Like a great/ Sweeping tide/ A pride that blinds

A pride that misguides the person/ Away from truth/ And away from decency/ And takes them/ Someplace else/

Another man's domain/ Where his ideals/ Rule tyrannical

Now one/ Would find themselves/ In a state/ In a trance/ Governed by suggestion/ And powerless/ At best

Yet to/ See the worst of/ The horrors/ This will produce/ Can't argue/ With the masses/ Only harass them/ And raise awareness/ Understand hopelessness/ And forgive the masters

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All messed up inside/ All messed up again/ Twisted around/ Hung upside down/ Just messed up/ Things ain't my way/ Not this day/ Something awry/ Messed up tonight

I would be depressed/ If I could feel emotion/ Instead I am dulled/ In this lessened awareness/ One thought/ One problem/ Messed up and thinking/ No time to be aware/ When I can't even care

All messed up/ Would you believe/ All my dreams/ Were only that?/ And I woke up/ So look at that

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What once mattered/ Is irrelevant now/ What once caused drama/ Is lost to time now

Why live in the moment/ When the moment means nothing?/ Does my life mean nothing?

No, I live in the past/ Where there is a value/ And I always know/ The price I paid

However, nothing is the same/ As it used to be (except me)

If I live in the past/ My life is still nothing/ But at least I've got one thing/ I have the past/ Which means nothing/ I have something/ And that something means nothing

Cannot live in the past/ Won't live in the moment/ Maybe live for tomorrow/ Either way,/ I am only alive

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10:52 Through the Clock-glass

There was a time. When I thought life was hard. I no longer feel that way. I now perceive living in this society to be a complete impossibility. Too many chances to be arrested mean too many opportunities to become a criminal. Too many fines are stealing the money I need to get ahead and never had anyway. The foundation was built with cash. And over time people kept going back to the stash and now nothings left. Collapse. The rich need more money. The middle class. Taking everything from the middle class. The money men bleed for is just handed over. Make the middle class poor and let the rich keep the remainder. Let the rich take it off the top. Skim away any profits. People are going to snap. And I want to stay away. Stay alive and stay ok. I don't even want to work anymore. It's so pointless. All I do is find a balance. Some way to get away from this. And still be glad to exist. This has nothing to do with conforming. More becoming comfortable with not conforming. More specifically, surviving without conforming. The biggest concern of mine is those, all those, who will not and could never, understand. In my eyes, the path I've chosen to tread is no more or no less treacherous than the path the system has lain before me and my generation.

So you're damned if you do/ Damned if you don't/ Somewhere somebody/ Is praying you won't/ There is an evil inside/ An evil outside/ And an evil beyond

There was a choice to be made/ And it made itself for you/ There was a soul to be saved/ The one who adored you/ Some soul in danger/ Of some evil stranger/ An evil lover/ It was original sin/ All over again/ We will always eat that apple

It's a shark in the water/ And the shot of a sniper/ A cobra underfoot/ A stalker in the shadow/ It's a will that never was/ A choice without an option

Pray/ 666/ The apple be not rotten.

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Amidst a humid midst/ Of that putrid yellow fog/ And the rancid sensation/ Of absolute dread expectation/ I take timid steps/ Unsure of my footing/ Knowing and expecting/ Just knowing and expecting

Your horrible faces/ Your terrible faces

Your fucking shit existence/ Blindsides me through a yellow mist/ At my sides I clench my fist/ In a bloody mouth I bit my lip/ Too afraid to look up/ Too afraid to take my shades off/ There are so fucking many of you/ There is so fucking little I can do

Your horrible faces/ Your terrible faces

So sick of no saving grace/ Everywhere I turn I see these faces/ I lock myself inside/ And throw away the key/ I never go outside/ So you'll never know how badly/ Your faces bother me

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Richie's Mirror

"Hit man," was my response when my second grade teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. What was yours? Who can fathom the experiences of others? So many people do so many things all of the time. Part of me knew the things they did were better than the things I did. That envy got old quickly. Someone once told me to go big or go home. I haven't been home much since that time. I went as big as I could. I pulled culture to myself out of this culture deficit society of ours. It was like getting blood out of a rock. But I managed. When I was funded and mobile- Concerts, land masses, girls, drugs, police, parties of epic rite booming through city streets, every; city, road and highway; hood; in every direction as far as I could reach, sex behind broken windshields in cars in broad daylight at the packed beach, abortion protests with crazy religious people leading to kidnappings in moldy basements, war protests with insane girlfriends, the crowd surfers that girlfriend beat violently at ICP shows, oddly meaningful pilgrimages to cult performances: every belief/ religion/ theorem/ concept/ speaker/ thinker/ writer/ mystic/ culture shock/ statements of truth/ threat of ignorance/ life altering everyday practices/ medical solutions to everyday ailments/ brilliant drugged up grunge sludge musicians speaking their minds more eloquently than any scholar could ever dream of, for they are singing with what could be their very last breath/ learning to perceive hidden agendas/ human nature/ the actual nature of humans in accordance to the nature of life and the infinite/ the beauty of hypocrisy and contradiction/ psychology/ interactions with my fellow man becoming iffy over time/ the roles men must play/ loopholes/ the amount of attention required in all actuality. All of that and much more has been taken into consideration and analyzed over time and has helped develop who I am by the practical application to my life of what I had learned. This is how we all do it, no? I lost the anxiety of never having enough fun but gained about 7 more anxieties from random drug and life induced neurological and psychological acts of destruction. I finished this piece of writing, as an 18 year old Leo, rather abruptly with this two word sentence; Everyone sux.

Salt in the wind/ The wind through my wound/ My pain is in the lifestyle/ Which causes/ Certain appreciation/ For every ache/ I am privileged enough to have/ This problem/ The problems/ I might not solve them/ Another product of lifestyle/ Relief is in/ The lifestyle/ Fuck that/ See that/ Attitude/ Is in my lifestyle/ How would we mind?/ How could we mind?/ The trees let us/ They told us to do it/ They'll hide us they told us/ Help us make it worse/ The trees limit our foresight/ And keep us out there/ We can't find a way/ Without foresight/ Won't change today/ These days will stay/ Trees blowing the wind/ Through my wound

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We were born organisms/ We were raised children/ We live our lives in wide open cages/ Somewhere between we become Americans/ Our birthright is debt/ To some fucked up nation/ We burn out like cigars/ Labeled Americans

I am not a fucking American/ Say what you will/ I know who I am

I don't want to be an American/ It wasn't my choice/ I had no control/ I would have demanded an option/ There is no freedom from taxes/ I am a fucking person/ We should own our country/ Not the other way around

Say what you will/ I know who I am

My heart beats anarchy/ My cuts bleed anarchy/ I want to own the ground beneath me/ I want to earn my own bad name/ Instead of having one given to me/ My flag should be anarchy/ Their flag should not own me/ That flag does not own me

I know who I am/ I am not a fucking American

A piece of paper somewhere/ Says something or other/ Born in such and such place/ America/ I disagree with all that/ I was born to the earth/ And not to the figment/ American

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Riviera Glare

I want to be crusading. Or, I'd rather be crusading, I should say. Yo, can I bum a smoke. Throw the leaves over the bridge. Waking up in pain with new wounds from the night before and a lack of memory I cannot ignore. Scarface fucked up somewhere along the line. I'd rather be reckless driving. Way too many people. They're everywhere. Real life is so fake. Girls get naked when they feel like being cool. Forget about it. I catch you here again and I'll wipe you all over the place. I'd rather be blowing lines. Oh, sweet. Stealing shit is easier in the movies. I shouldn't reproduce. Reproduction is the only true logic in life. Create more life. Every life form shares that goal. I registered to vote. I like having the option to vote for Bush, that evil puppet. Fuck Bush. I'd rather be fucking. You're going to Miami. Bring me back some panties. Another best man. Bricka bracka fire cracka sick boom bah, revolt revolt, rah rah rah. I think underwear is the reason everyone is so upset. How cool would it be to float? Drugs can make you float. A magic lamp would be dope. Does karma apply to a dog? I heard a comedian say any that any man who wears Capri pants should hand over his "guy card". I can not help but feel he was talking about me as I am the only man I have ever known, or anyone I know has ever known, to wear Capri pants. They were black and had two strings dangling from either stunted pant leg. I found them in my sisters abandoned closet and I liked them a lot. I caught endless shit from my friends for wearing them. Let it forever be known that I got laid by a smoking hottie at the beach while wearing those pants. The ocean simultaneously claimed them for all time. Never to be seen again by me. The point is I liked the pants, and while they may have been made for girls, I don't give a fuck what anyone has to say about it, I got laid by a smoking hottie while wearing those pants soon to be claimed by the sea. It takes one bad motherfucker to wear Capri pants. The cheapest condom is called, "Class Act." It's not his fault, he's Polish. Band- aid brand adhesive strips are better than the generic ones. The weather channel resembles heroin. Girls love shooting pool. Did you know cranberries are actually disgusting? However, roasted chestnuts are good. Oregon is the revolution state. Who built all these fucking rock walls? Riviera is a very lovely word. The Red Sox broke their curse on a Lunar Eclipse but Astrology is still refuted.

Crumble away/ Is what morals do/ And empathy too/ Then a slew/ Of issues to mind/ Crumble away in time/ Actions of crime/ Respect for nothing/ And no one/ Little to show/ Little to own/ Little we've grown/ Broken psyches/ Lay in this wake/ Whole ones stand/ On the horizon/ Crumble away/ This day/ And next year/ Everyday of every year/ Will crumble away/ To make room for/ The next/ Day to/ Crumble away/ Things change/ As history/ Repeats itself/ The earth and/ Its occupants/ Work this way/ Crumble away

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Some concern themselves with the rapture/ Some kind of nonsense that is/ Some concern themselves with Prada/ Some kind of nonsense that is

Everyone's concerned with this or that/ Something or other

I'm not concerned

Forget about the revolution/ Forget about your personal rebellion

Let the corporation destroy us/ Let the man destroy us/ And let our big brother destroy us/ For that matter as well/ For that matter as well

Don't worry your pretty little head/ We all know it's coming to an end

Do what you can with the time we've got left/ Try to enjoy yourself/ While there is still joy available

Because I don't care about the world anymore/ No/ I don't care/ No/ Not anymore

I don't care about the world anymore/ No/ I don't care/ No/ Not anymore

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Clearly what leads/ Disagrees with me/ And clearly people/ Haven't the capacity/ To disagree/ To live head free/ To dive the seas/ For pearls of clarity

If we rocked the equation/ Made ignorance undesirable/ Make not being trendy/ A trendy trend/ And all my black friends might/ Realize they have white skin

The shit culture blinds/ With flash popularity/ People become whores/ For consumerisms/ Spend blind dollars/ In blind faith/ Creating false enjoyment/ Ignorance/ They all seem to love it

I never got my subscription/ To dipshit weekly/ What's hot, what's not/ The shit in between/ The shit on the scene/ That shit is obscene

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Autism Manifesto:

Hail to the Unknown

Humans have lost touch/ Our spirit is trapped in inertia/ Can Autism slow it?/ 01001010100110110100  
Never in the shadows/ Only at the edge of the light  
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An animal mystery of human proportions/ Within them lies an answer

Two years before I started working with autistic people I was working with autistic people. I didn't really know what it meant to be autistic. Autism for me at that time was just another disorder among so many: cerebral palsy, downs syndrome, autism, acquired brain injury, stroke, mental retardation, obesity, obsessive compulsive disorder, add and adhd, developmental disorders, sensory disorders, epilepsy, and all in any combination conceivable. I really only met six or seven people with autism that summer. I didn't understand them and I didn't really try to.

Few people understand autism. The ones who do are usually involved with it in some way. Even then, comprehension is only an aspiration.

Their presence in this world is very real, but from where I sit now, thinking of what I've observed and what I have read, I can only really understand the mystery.

I cannot tell you about the research. I cannot tell you about things I do not know. I can only tell you about my personal mystification by this affliction.

In the late 1980's; 1 in every 10,000 people born were diagnosed with autism. Now in 2008, that statistic rests between 1:166 and 1:200.

Autism is a developmental brain disorder. These individual's brains are not working like yours or mine. Please understand that first and foremost.

This is not as simple as mental retardation. Though mental retardation among them is a 70 percent occurrence. People with mental retardation have the same general grasp around their five senses as we do. At the very least. And as far as I can tell with autistics that would rank up there in the best conditions.

Here are these people. These human lives. They have families. Everyone has their family. Unless orphaned, of course. And the families affect the kids. The good families are those who are right there every step with love and affection. The result usually comes across in the individual. The worse families are the ones who are not. The result usually comes across in the individual.

Then there are wildcards. After all, nothing is absolute. And then there is an in between. Things fluctuate in lives. They change over time. They grow into the person they are destined to be. Everything will always be taking some toll on an autistic, in our eyes, in their lives, in their minds, in our hearts. No one can tell us exactly why they act like this. This way only a person with autism can be. It's genetic; there are a lot of possibilities. Is it really a genetic mystery?

Whatever it is; it's bleak. There's no cure. And there is not even a known cause. We'll say low functioning. We'll say severe autism. But we can't really do anything to stop it. And if we cannot stop it, we've got to work with it. Like damning a river. Controlling a wild mass of energy.

As it is, most readers will not understand what I mean when I say a wild mass of energy. But that is severe autism for you. Aggression: towards others or towards themselves. Throwing objects at a whim. Running far away for seemingly no reason. Most people throughout their lives will not see that side of it, if less than a mere glimpse. Your associations may be more subtle; a far away nephew. Or a friend's kid. They may have been in your place of school, or work. They're all just sweethearts. Or you know, strange? Perhaps we see so few of them because so many of them are at the institutes.

Of the various institutes for autism. Each one is, or most are, doing great things for the individuals. There are theories being thrown around, methods being exchanged or ignored. They all operate a little differently from one another. But each one shares a common goal of maximizing the potential of each person's life. Within the institutes, there is no one being left behind, I have noticed. Every autistic person involved or enrolled will receive the maximum benefit from the services available. Which I think is a manifestation of two character traits common to those therapists working with them; dedication and caring. These institutes are vast in their methods. They get results. Major or minor, and with autism; minor is always better than none.

I have worked for an institute. I have seen the spectrum of the individuals. I have also toured other institutes. I continue to work with autistic people. At this point, I have trouble focusing my attention elsewhere. Often developing a one track mind over it.

In the institutes you see the whole spectrum. Not so much the autism spectrum of disorders (Autism, Rett, Asperger, PDD-NOS) though that as well. But the other spectrum. High functioning to low functioning. Mild to severe. Aggressive or not. "Behavioral" or not. Eventually it comes together like a Monet. Who fits where in the picture? How will what you know of these individuals help you to help those other individuals? It is that notion of a spectrum which I have carried with me most. The confusing violence of some and the ensuing chaos, the intrigue, the ones you love and the ones who would destroy you. Also, there is the peculiar beauty autism emanates once you realize how much you've begun to feel for them emotionally.

They seem cheated of the great gift of life. They are so different. I mean, some misbehave too much, some don't. Some like eating obscure objects, and some do not. Some are violent, and some are not. Some of them have the most intricate minds you could ever hope to witness. Others are so far removed from the here and now that we thrive in; I would give so much just to know what is happening inside their head. The way they can be in the same room and be on another planet simultaneously.

To gaze into a little girl with Retts syndrome's eyes, is to become overwhelmed with sadness. And hopelessness. Why is it so hard for her to walk? And to hold silverware? Why can't she communicate with me? What is she thinking? How does it feel to be her? Beyond the physical nature of her mind and bones. Just, why? What could I ever really do for this person? What can we do for you dear little one?

I believe nothing less than our utmost attention should be paid to autism. Is there a cure? Is there a cause? These questions cannot go unanswered. I know that there are scientists trying to figure this out. And assuming they are doing their job, I applaud their efforts. What of those who believe the problem to be caused by vaccinations we get as infants? Are they wrong? Because if they aren't wrong, why isn't something being done about that? Even with my limited knowledge of double blind studies I know that such a theory could be put to the test, and proved or ruled out for good. This is either sheer ignorance or a conspiracy.

Temple Grandin is the only person I consider an authority in autism theory. She is autistic. Again and again she points out the same thing I have noticed; the animal nature of these people. Sometimes, it seems as if you were to take a wild animal, put clothes on them and teach them to do human things. I mean, we can teach certain animals sign language. We can teach low functioning autistics how to set tables, manage hygiene, to be civil. They are learning every little thing one step at a time. We may all learn one step at a time but normal humans learn very quickly. It could take years to teach a person with autism to set that table. A human brain is more powerful than an animal brain so it goes well further than sign language in gorillas. But the principle is there.

Some people with autism are so intelligent it seems they are mostly only affected by the communication deficits, or social issues. Generally the animal nature is there. How else does Temple Grandin see the world the same way an animal does? Her mind is thinking in pictures before words. And since animals have no words, they too think in pictures. It comes back to the complexities of the autistic mind.

They don't get cold. They can hear candy wrappers being opened two doors down. Some parts of their brain are on overdrive while others are short circuiting.

On page 31 of her book, Animals in Translation, Temple Grandin says, "You cannot solve an animal mystery unless you put yourself in their place- literally in their place". Looking at the world from the same angle. Going where they are going and doing what they are doing. To a degree, the institutes do this. I believe the notion to be key.

A fairly prominent characteristic of theirs is not behaving so well. And even if it is not a matter of behaving there is something profoundly personal within them causing stress. This is very difficult for us to understand. Some centers for autism are identifying stressors as one preemptive measure for controlling cumbersome behavior. Stress; believed to be a main cause of these behaviors. But so much behavior is self injurious. Or dangerous to others. The innocence involved is the tragedy. While some know what they are doing is wrong, others seem lost. Consumed by a strong will to physically harm themselves that we cannot fully understand.

The therapists working with them do an amazing job. And as the therapist gains experience the number of afflicted they can help seems to grow exponentially.

Sometimes I see in the institutes throwbacks to the things Temple Grandin has said. It is clear some methods have been implemented from her observations and knowledge. But methods become stagnant. They achieve a level of results that plateaus and then passes as the best that can be done.

I do love the way everyone has come together over time. How they've formed these great institutions (research Willow Brook State Hospital in Staten Island to discover how things were nationwide not long ago). But now is the time for innovation. Trial and error. Now is the time to try everything. Try things that don't make any sense. Reconsider and reevaluate everything. And then do it again. We can do this now because the population is stable. That is to say, for right now, this is under control.

It all comes down to that remarkable bumper sticker, "Autism Awareness." Hail to the unknown. I have a healthy fear of autism. And I think you should too. It is human nature to fear the things we do not understand. And we do not understand this. I am afraid it will overwhelm us. With numbers on the increase so dramatically, I fear for the unborn autistic person. When I am middle aged, how many people will I know with children who have autism?

We should let this fear guide us, or even push us, towards higher levels of understanding. Everyone involved should be taking very long hard looks at the people with autism they know. Think about what it is you are seeing before your eyes. It is the job of the scientist to find a cure and a cause. But it is our job to try and understand. If we all work together at this, I believe there is something more that we can give to the little girl with Rett syndrome. Something more for all of them. We just don't know what it is yet.

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Get straight broken arrow/ Fly on broken wings of gold/ Broken arrow fly dead, fly death/ Broken arrow fare lonely as rhinoceros/ Fare lonely as white rhinoceros/ Broken arrow die not like cattle/ Resonate life like the phoenix

Footprints in blood pools/ Blood pools from which the rabbit drinks/ Rabbit drink death and feel more alive/ Sad rabbit drink death and feel more alive/ Rabbit chases phoenix/ All the way home/ Rabbit chases phoenix/ Phoenix cowers to its hole/ Sad rabbit fare lonely/ Fare lonely as rhinoceros

Death hold no façade/ Death tell no false truth/ Death always follow/ With quiet mouth and silent step/

Broken arrow fly/ On broken wings of gold/ Broken arrow die/ But die not like cattle/ Fare lonely as rhinoceros/ Sad rabbit drink death/ Feel more alive/ Sad rabbit chase the phoenix/ Back into its hole

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Anxious again anxious still/ Living today against my will/ How I long to slip into a trance/ And only come out,/ When I fucking want to/ Anxious again anxious still/ The fucking anxiety is making me ill/ Nothing is worth doing/ So fuck it/ I'd kill myself/ If I didn't love mother so much

Anxious still- I went to a shrink/ Couldn't get a pill without healthcare/ Anxious again anxious still/ Slip into a trance.../ Slip into a trance...

My journey is a circle/ And I cant break away/ Progress fucking eludes me/ Every goddamned day/ My fire burns to spread/ From the bottom of that sea/ We call life

Anxious still/ And I'm amazed/ I can still find/ Writing worthwhile

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Control

I am not in control. I never have been and I never will be. That may be an all encompassing statement; still I find it to be nearly flawless. I have no control over my existence. From my emotions to my economic status. It is either a simple matter of control being outside the reach of my psychological grasp or the more complex issue of the beast that we call society. When I think about it, it occurs to me that if I could pick one thing to enrich my life it would be control, in any form I could get it.

The most noticeable instance would be throughout my daily interactions with other people. The fact that one man's will will usually be more dominate than my own. Things can hardly go my way when they are going the way of someone whom undoubtedly has different preferences than I, i.e. music, air conditioning, lunch time, and so on.

Furthermore, things could go the way of a group. Very rarely do I agree with the group mentality. My preferences are too specific and too premeditated to flow along the will of the wisp that often presents itself in group situations. It is to my dismay that I cannot go through life as an audacious pompous jack ass making things go my way. I always have the option to segregate myself from group activities, but hardly ever do I make use of it. Most of the time it is more important to keep the company and just suffer the unpleasantness.

Self control is the flaw in my earlier statement. I have entirely too much self control. I am a doormat. Welcome, you may all walk on me. I tolerate the self control lack thereof of everyone around me with a sigh and a look to the right. Every dumb person that I find myself in the company of; listening to them talk about stupid shit I couldn't give a fuck less about because I am too kind to tell them to shut the hell up.

With the exception of my addictive personality, I am in control of myself. I understand what matters least and can treat it as such. Resulting in a passive air that has become a burdensome trademark by which I am known.

The biggest problem is psychological. I would never try to sum up all that is wrong with me in a single paragraph; I prefer to hint at it and paint a picture in small brush strokes over the course of many writings. But when it comes to control, it comes to this; I cannot control the aspects that make me miserable. I would like to not be agoraphobic, afraid of the outside world. But I cannot help the fact that every pair of eyes that I catch a glimpse of feels like a kick in the face. Or that at any given moment my content state of mind can be shattered like a mirror, and in the aftermath I am left nothing more than a worried heap of man. Every little thing that is wrong or that is going to be wrong comes together to make a crashing tidal wave of malcontent. I have no control over that part of me. Yet, I can recognize it as detrimental and abnormal. Left to my own devices, as a result, I have estranged my friends and found myself once again in the office of a shrink.

And fucking alcohol. The epitome of zero control. To date I have spent a year and some change actively trying to break free of that fucked up chemical and to no avail. Addiction, second only to nicotine, but I don't mind nicotine. Cigarettes only make life easier, but alcohol only makes things worse. Negative, negative, bad. And it is everywhere. In every home, every weekend, the greatest resource of the group mentality. Why must we intoxicate ourselves, could anything be more unnatural than a habit of intoxicating your body to the degree that it cannot function properly, to the point where you actually lose the instinct and ability to control yourself? Once again I can recognize this malfunction, but have no control over that part of me. A challenge I face every day and, to date, have been unable to overcome.

And society. I cringe at the word. A word that brings to mind other words: government, consumerism, cash, highways, superhighways, death, poverty, upper class, lower class, laws, prison, rent, employment, wage slavery, bars, malls, politics, terrible. It all makes me so nauseous. The best example of how I feel lies in my peers. I listen to them complain about how we should do our part to make the world a better place; recycle and drive fuel efficient vehicles. As if any of that will do any good. The problem is bigger than you and I and that makes it a non issue. As if commuters are the biggest users of fossil fuels, no way; industry and construction, heating homes, concerning yourself with the fuel efficiency of your vehicle is like trying to melt an iceberg with an empty lighter. The planet is destroyed beyond litter. Highways are litter, cities are litter. Naturally these problems are only bad for people and the innocent creatures we kill, the planet herself will be fine.

And political conflict? Why do we care? Our government is out of control, and nothing any of us says will make them act responsibly. The terror it creates is not of our lives, it is real through a picture in a box, the news tells us horrible things and we get upset. They are brainwashing us and manipulating our existence. Until war is at my front door, it is a non-issue. The only way I can see (however nearsighted) now that it affects us is through giant gas prices and who knows what is going on to cause that? Fuck it. If you really care that much than drive less. A non issue.

The real problem is the role we play. You and I. We are bred to feed the beast. Life consists of bare minimums, mostly that of happiness. We work and live in boxes and consume. The government takes our money without even asking. We suffer from illnesses that were given to us at birth in the form of vaccinations, just so they (whoever they are) can sell drugs. Human life has no value further than a dollar bill.

The system that made everything work this way is bigger than us and has defended itself too well. We are powerless against it, rising up is an outdated thought. There is nothing for us to do but wait for it to crumble from the inside out. The system that controls us has become a non issue, too big for you and I. So when I hear my brothers and sisters tell me that they will not support one institution because it is a product of some corporation, I can only ask "Why bother?" Fuck it. Shop at Wal-Mart and eat at McDonald's. We the people have no control over anything that matters and it will stay that way until we have a bigger problem to deal with, when the empire falls and we are faced with raging instability.

I can make the most of the box I was dealt and not much more. I can suck it up and drag myself through a life of constant discomfort. I can clench my fist at the thought of the bigger picture. I can get laid, I can intoxicate myself, I can read a book, I can write a book that will never be read, and I can eat the food that I like when I can afford it. I can play music with a friend. I can watch a movie I enjoy. I can make the best of a very bad situation. And not much more. Not. Much. More.

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I shook the hand of a man/ Who had no fingers/ I bathed a man/ With broken knees/ I've heard men talk for hours/ And never once listened

I've helped a woman do a word search/ And pretended I was stumped/ I've changed diaper after diaper/ And taught innocent men dirty things

I fantasize about doing these/ Humans in/ With ice picks and screwdrivers/ Behind a blank face/ A lack of patience/ Tears my spirit apart/ In a position I do not belong/ I am not a good person/ You've got me all wrong/ The burden of my fellow man/ Is too much to take/ I love these people/ More than I love you/ I love them more/ Than I love myself/ And I fucking hate all of them

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A Disturbed Puddle in the Street

Body of Christ. Too much hair. Let the fly go. But put one in the microwave. Dances with bitches. Are there any benefits to being a heretic? Running in the rain with girls? Tripping and falling hard with guys. Going to the mountains and going to the lake. Meeting girls who live too far away and having 2.5 week relationships over the phone until we both give up. Music becomes you. Tom Morello is a guitar. Bobby's World is where I live. Croutons are defiant of forks. We put Indians on fountains in front of our capitals to mock them. That is a hoagie worth caterpillar. A fit fat cropped/ to hit and roll that/ a tit tat rocked/ to flip and roll that/ wit cracked chapped rip/ a rabid tack flow/ dat rocked ya yeah and ya know that/ a rabid land handed down from the man/ and they's the fan burning with crane jam/ n remain bummed/ in years of the same jam/ and came the I am/ and broke ya out the jam/ and a sane land/ she came and ran/ screaming with a crayon/ and that crimson red hair/ that will burn your trousers/ if she'd allow ya/ and ya wanna wanna hit it/ so hard she'd leave a scar/ and step up to the ship/ put ya self up on it/ and slap wit to bullshit rap/ the Irish kid in the cap/ on the bottom deck reading a map/ and Attila the Hun/ hit the red haired nunny/ we stuck fuckin playboy bunnies/ who don't want these nuts/ we wipe on their butts/ so they spit in our faces/ cuz we're racists/ against Willi-recans and vegans/ who open their mouth/ who knows what about/ SO SCREAM AND SHOUT ABOUT DREAMS AND DOUBTS/ stir around and bare a heavy crown/ the Irish boy who drowned/ never wore a frown/ and bulging cleavage will feed a hound.

*I want everything back/ *All of my shit/ *I don't want to think about you/ *I can't even write your name on paper/ *You did something to me/ *I'm empty inside/ *You drained me of everything good/ *I used to smile/ *I don't smile anymore/ *What you did was fucked up/ *You used me/ *I feel so used/ *I want everything back/ *You shouldn't even be able to think about me/ *I want the pictures/ *I'm too beautiful/ *I want this to have never happened/ *How fucked up are you?/ *You are too fucking out there/ *I won't begin trying to fucking think like you/ *You're like talking to a marble/ *Everything just roles off/ *I can't get through/ *You could never understand/ *I want my shit back

*= She said to me over the phone from inside the mental hospital

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Sometimes I don't feel alive/ I know that I am/ But I cannot feel it

I can see the world around me/ But cannot feel it/ Everything is distant

I cannot feel it/ So I shudder/ And my whole body aches

I shudder all over/ Looking at the skyline/ The cathedral and Christ/ I shudder

I could almost weep/ But I shudder instead/ And bury my face in pillows/ Flies lay eggs in my brain/ And I just shudder

The air crushes me/ Makes me small/ Everything gets so much larger/ And I shudder

I cannot feel it/ It or anything/ And then I'm afraid

I touch wet grass/ But cannot feel it/ Where am I?

Sometimes I don't feel alive/ I know that I am/ But I cannot feel it

What the fuck is life?

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Maybe one day I will see you again/ In a parallel world of what could have been/ A world where our love goes unchallenged/ And we would be and stay together/ Where this poem would not exist/ And you're not just a name on that list/ And we wouldn't just go/ We wouldn't go our separate ways

Fucking beat me with it/ Shove it down my gushing throat/ Fuck me one more last time/ And then tell me again

Why are you going?/ I will never understand/ How you up and leave your man/ You were my god my life my everything/ You were seriously EVERYTHING/ What punishment is left to suffer,/ If all of this is really over?/ I'll never fucking see you again/ Doesn't that mean anything?/ Out of that door/ You are walking/ Out of my life/ I'll never fucking see you again/ Doesn't that mean anything?

Tell me again my beautiful/ Is all of this really over?/ Tell it to me again/ Tell it to me again/ Fucking beat me with it/ Shove it down my gushing throat/ Fuck me one more last time/ And then tell me again

And then tell me again/ And tell me again and again/ And again and again/ And again and again/ And tell me over and over/ Over and over and over/ Tell me over and over/ Forever

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No matter how poetic/ No matter how passionate/ No matter how loving/ No matter how compassionate/ The future's fucking set/ It's this life without you/ A life sentence without you/ I just couldn't hold on to you/

It's fucking frightening/ How our time together ends/ It's fucking frightening/ To be left with nothing/ To be fucking broken/ Be fucking abandoned/ Your well being stolen/ In the stench completely alone

There is not enough darkness/ To blind me from all of this/ The sun illuminates this town/ A place I thought I could be happy/ But you ruined that for me/ Fuck Minnesota and fuck cloud city/ Fuck this land,/ Of 10,000 places to drown yourself

You have taken my reality/ But was it ever even real?/ Did that ever happen?/ Or was it only a dream?/ And this,/ A cold sweat awakening?/ Or is this the dream?/ Because it feels that way/ Nothing feels real anymore

Give me back my reality/ I'm too alone in this dream/ Nothing feels real anymore/ This is all only a dream / Nothing feels real anymore / What did you do to me?/ Give me back my reality/ This is only a dream/ Or maybe a cold sweat awakening

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Shattered Image in a Frame

"Here's Johnny," said Jack puffin on his crack. Think about the hit, whack is what it is. Hair so frizz. No doe for biz. Tip back for the slack the stack by the shack, and the rack of lamb he's been eating. Spam. And she drew in the line of clothes right on time. The wind blew and the rain fell but the sun stayed high in the sky. Going nowhere but saying goodbye. The road got wet and you could not forget the sky stayed dry. Barefoot she walked down the road to the boat dock. Where she got a rock. Skipped that rock and for a moment she was part of it and part of the heart of it. This drew her in to do it again. Then she stood like you would and could if you walked barefoot to the dock and threw a rock. So don't walk. Stay locked. Tied down to your town with a frown so long king kong steps back from your art, and tears it apart, stuck with a dart to the ground of your locked down town. Torn apart in time or torn apart in rhyme. Should you ever discover evident crime, do the right thing and rat out a drug ring or mind your own shit and stay legit not down with all up in other people's business. What's in your well water? Hey Mother, I like your daughter. Fuck shellfish. Fuck seafood. Viva la fish oil supplements. Do electronics make sense to you? Are you one of the obscure few? Republican hate. The Ouija board called us stoners. The board said it was a cop. He would arrest us but does not care what we do. His name was Sevel. Moss hanging on the rocks. The burden of clocks. A lack of stocks. Foreign markets are not a concern. Neither is stem cell research. Not SARS either. Big fast food. Terrorism is a joke. Pictures of other people's horror from around the world. Who's the terrorist newsman? Disease might not matter. Or it may well too. Poverty.

Ezra stepped out/ Into the wind/ Into the dark/ Into the night/ She held herself tight/ Wrapped in her jacket/ Fur close to her face/ Her day had been long/ She thought only of Orson/ He would be asleep/ She'd wake him up/ He'd pull her into bed/ The subway took her/ Three stops uptown/ The cold bit harder/ As she paced on through/ Paced to his complex/ And let herself in/ Three flights up/ Nine doors down/ She let herself in/ Made herself comfortable/ And drank iced tea/ Opening his door/ The hallway light floods/ He doesn't wake up/ Sits on his bed/ And rubs his shoulders/ He wakes up/ And looks at Ezra/ Wrapping his arm around her waist/ He pulls her into bed/ Together they go/ Into the night

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Rolling in the dirt/ Looking up at threatening stars/ In a desperate disillusioned sky/

It comes to my attention/ All my fight has died/ That well of life within me/ Has parched cracked and dried/ And I am at one with the dirt

0011010010100101001001001001001001

Imagine me walking in the streets/ Avoiding actively the eyes I meet/ Stumbling over my own two feet/ Running away from my deceit/ Turning the corners aimlessly/ Standing at crosswalks nervously/ Light and flick the cigarettes,/ Simultaneously/ This is all your imagination

Bedridden fetal position/ Gotta gotta gotta stay hidden/ Bedridden at my own admission/ A walk away from being committed/ Bedridden now kill the world/ Please make it all go away/ Bedridden staying hidden/ I'd kill the world if I could

0100101110100101010110010101010101

Cannot live in this world/ The pressure is too much/ The debt accumulates/ While I hide myself away/ Another monster waiting out there/ I know I've got to face it/ I'd really rather run from it/ Not sure what to do about that

10101001010010100100101010100101011

Preoccupied with death/ Preoccupied with the sound of silence/ Preoccupied by my worries/ They may own me/ That preoccupies me

0101010010101010010010101010101010011

How long is the fall down this pit?/ How hard will I hit/ If I ever reach the bottom/ Of this bottomless pit?

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My Better Half

"Spencer, are you coming?" asks my roommate, Linda.

"Yeah, I'll catch up with you guys, I gotta take a leak," I said.

From behind me in the hallway I feel a hand on my lower back. I look to my side and see the smiling face of a Beautiful brown haired girl looking up at me. I lean in and kiss her and she runs off to the others standing at the doorway and they all walk out of the apartment.

I use the bathroom. I have to piss so badly. We have been drinking since about three PM and there is well over a six pack in me now. It is about eight o clock and looking out the window in the living room the bright light of this summer day turns to the golden red hues of sunset over the park across the street.

I grab my acoustic guitar out of Rayden's room which doubles as a jam room and grab a beer out of the fridge. I don't bother putting any shoes on. On hot days like these there is no point in covering up anymore than necessary. The pebbles in the street make me tip toe as I walk toward my friends. They are all playing hacky-sac in the grass. Rayden is wandering away from the group following the sac as he kicks it higher and higher. Linda and my girlfriend, Theresa, are sitting on the ground tearing unconsciously at the grass and watching him.

Rayden has a zest for life that I have never witnessed in another human being. At one time he was my childhood bully, but the proximity of our lives and the similarity in our lifestyle choices, brought us together as friends over the years. There is more personality in Rayden than in my entire eighth grade class combined. He has such an extensive range of information and knowledge, that he comes across as a human dictionary, encyclopedia, atlas, and a multitude of textbooks all wrapped into one. He has the energy of an Olympic long distance runner. And while he does have his flaws that sometimes make him a chore of a friend, mostly a temper, his company is something priceless and every moment in his company is truly a gift.

Standing in the circle is my other best friend Dexter and the short bouncy indie rocker girl who has been living on our couch the past few weeks. I put my guitar face down in the grass by Theresa and give her a kiss. She keeps talking to Linda and I walk over to join the circle.

"Man. You didn't bring one of them for me, did you?" asked Dexter as I crack open my beer.

"You coulda brought yourself one."

"Yeah, shit. I'll be right back. You got keys?"

"Yeah here."

Dexter ran off toward the building.

Dexter has been my closest friend for years and years now. To the point that I consider the beginning of my awareness sometime around when we first started hanging out together. Before Dexter was in my life, I was just a larva, a child led through my day to day life at the beck and call of my parents and teachers. With Dexter, I began to branch out and realize that there was more to this life than they had previously told me. The greatest catastrophes of my life and the greatest fond memories all share one thing in common: his presence. We have experienced so much together that at any given moment on any given day one of us can reminisce about something from the past with the other and rarely is it ever the same event twice. The best way to put it is the phrase "dynamic duo." For years our presence was referred to as Dexter and Spencer. For example: when are Dexter and Spencer going to be here? What he brings to the partnership is an air of coolness and explosive spontaneity, allowing any given situation the option to branch out into a completely new and unexpected venture. As to what I bring, I am not entirely sure, but I do know that without Dexter its value would be nil.

Rayden is still hacking the sac, but now in place talking to Britney as he does.

"Chuck Klosterman. He lives in South Dakota and if I ever go there, I'm going to kill him."

"Why?" asks Brit.

"Cuz he wrote that book, Sex, Drugs, and Coco Puffs. And in it he goes off on this 26 page tangent about how soccer is for homos and girls."

I interjected, "Soccer _is_ for homos and girls. Are you gunna kill me?"

"I would if you wrote 26 pages based solely on that opinion."

He kicks the hacky sac my way and I bounce it three times on the inner edge of my right foot and pass it to Britney. Dexter came back with a beer in his hand and he opens it and takes a sip.

"Are you calling Lisa tonight?" Rayden asks him as he hacks to himself.

"Probably. There's not shit to do though, I'm sure"

"Have her bring some people over."

"Yeah, I will."

I am done with the circle, my guitar calling me, so I walk over and sit down next to my girl and pick up my guitar, playing a sad song in C. All I know is sad music and I don't want to bring anyone down so I played around with E instead. A slightly brighter chord.

Linda got up and walked to the circle.

"So are you just going to ignore me or what?" said Theresa.

My back is turned to the setting sun and it was striking her. She is so Beautiful. Her face reminds me of the feeling I got when my mother scratched my back as a child. I want to play my guitar but who could mind putting their toy down to crawl over to her? I take her in my arms and lay on the grass squeezing her into me.

"What are we doing tonight?" she asks me.

"Why do we have to do something?"

"Yeah. Why would we do anything, ever? I forgot that we don't do things."

"Well, we can't go anywhere. We've been drinking."

"Alright. But you've got to take me to a movie next week."

"That's fine. I will."

Everyone is spread out across the field now, throwing the hacky sac in a game of catch. Theresa and I lay in the grass, kissing and talking of things unimportant.

The sun disappeared and you could consider it dark so we all go back inside. The beer ran dry and I don't feel like buying any more. It is Monday night and Rayden, Dexter, and I have to work in the morning. So Theresa, Linda, Britney and me watch a movie they had rented the other night and Rayden and Dexter went uptown to see some girls. The movie is stupid, Linda rented it and she always rents the dumbest movies; I don't know why I even watch them anymore. But Theresa is cuddled up close with me and I hold her under a blanket from my bed. The girls are sitting cross legged on the other couch.

She looks up at me and doesn't say anything. Just letting her green eyes shine through the dim lighting. She has a mischievous smile on her face. Clearly aware of what she is doing.

"What?" I asked.

"Popcorn."

"Yeah. Alright."

It's been like this for the past couple months. Probably since Linda moved in. She gave Dexter someone to talk to so I could focus more on Theresa. Then Rayden got here. The guys and I work our job and we're gone on the road most of every week, but when we get home, I have my Beautiful girl, the center of my universe, and everyone has each other. We drink and be merry. This is the time in our lives that we looked forward to all through high school. A time when freedom comes in a tap. Our apartment is decorated with rock and roll posters instead of the framed flower pot portraits of our parent's homes. Dexter, Rayden, and I are 1500 miles from where we grew up. Our friendship is strengthened by that camaraderie. When one of us references the name of an old teacher, the other two know who that person was. We share a history that no one within 1500 miles would know anything about. We are free from the overbearing burden of our childhood stomping ground. We are free from our individual and mutual enemies. All we know is friendship and laughing. The weather is warm and we are free. We are the dreamers of John Lennon's "Imagine."

If you count Britney, there are six people living in this four bedroom apartment. I like to think I created this living situation. I always wanted to start a commune. As a 15 year old, I pictured some farmland out in the southwest where it's warm, with chickens and cows, like the hippies in that biker movie from the early 70's. Something gets lost in translation from imagination to reality. The land becomes an apartment and out west becomes up north in Minnesota. As a lazy disaffected youth I don't have much in terms of monetary funding, but I got a job that pays the rent, fills the fridge, and leaves enough money to spend on Theresa. It's the deal I made with society. It can take five days of my week if it must, but it will not go near the remaining two. Those are mine. Those are my days to fill with the loudest music our stereo can crank out. My days with my girl. My days with my friends. My days to relax, and not give a shit about the total square footage of carpet we've got to clean the next week or what state we'll be in while we clean it.

It's been real nice these past couple of months. I've been cleaning the carpet in these churches since about January, but nothing was really coming together until I got Dexter the job and he came out here and we got this apartment together. Shortly after that we got Rayden a job and he came out. And that was that. Freedom.

"Lots of butter," she said.

Funny that she stays so thin; with all the buttered popcorn that she eats. I am that girl's servant. I would lick the bathroom floor for her, if that's what she wanted. My goal is for her to go through life and never have to lift a finger. I feel it is what I can give back for all the happiness that she brings me. She knows I don't mind doing all these things for her. I mean, I'm just getting her popcorn right now, but there are other things. Mostly paying her bills when I can. I like paying her bills because it's a double edged blade. On the one hand, I am alleviating her of a pressing life concern or worry, one step further away from bad credit or whatever people who pay their bills worry about. At the same time, she knows how long and hard I had to work to get that money. Money is stupid. There is all sorts of money in the world, but it's time that is the commodity. You only get so much time. I like to show her that I love her so much her happiness is worth more than my time.

We all smoke a cigarette in Dexter's room at the end of the hall. The room clouds from four cigarettes burning all at once. The three girls are in their pajamas. Theresa is in these tight maroon colored pants that feel like thin fleece, and a tight black tank top. Linda is wearing gray sweats and a big purple t-shirt that says FU. And Britney is still wearing her clothes from the day. I write Dexter a note and leave it on his pillow on his big twin sized inflatable bed that stands about knee high. "Dexter- I'll wake you up when Steve calls. Should be around 7:30."

Steve is our boss. He's a big jolly guy from Utah. Always friendly and he's got the dirtiest sense of humor, very quick to point out a hottie 30 years younger than himself walking by. He drives the truck and sits around while we clean the churches. He's got the company credit card for our meals, the gas, and the hotels. In the morning he'll give me a call and tell me that he'll be here in ten minutes. I'll wake the guys up and we'll pick up our bags and wait for him outside. Then we'll get in the truck, tell Steve about our weekend and then fall asleep for four hours until we get to the job.

I sit up against the wall on my futon on the floor waiting for Theresa to do her little routine before she comes to bed. She's out in the bathroom brushing her teeth with Linda. Then she comes into our room, stepping over the clothes strewn across the floor. She sits next to me and takes out her contact lenses, then gets up to turn off the light. I lift the blanket for her to crawl under. We settle into bed, into the night. This night like so many others.

I kiss her. She kisses me. I squeeze her and she squeezes me back. This is the best moment of my life. Everything is perfect in this moment. I am not the easiest man to love and she loves me. I appreciate her for that and I thank god for every second that I have her in my arms.

While we are making love I can sense the world outside turning to dust and falling away. Out of the corner of my eye I see the blue and green light seeping through the cracks in the blinds. We are in outer space. In the farthest reaches of some unknown galaxy, in the most Beautiful nebula that exists in this universe. Zero gravity relieves every pressure in my body and all I know is the feeling. It's the best feeling that anyone has ever felt.

Everything is flooded with that blue green light. We are one being now, no longer human; no longer anything with a consciousness. We are only the sum of one another's passion and love. We are nothing and everything all at once. There are no walls now. Outer space consumes us in it's light and electricity. This is a time before mankind, before the dinosaurs, and before the earth. We are being pulled backward through space and time. While I was vaguely aware of this sensation at first, now I have no concept of reality or existence. Further and further and faster and faster, space and time crumble around us. There is a fire all around and we are heating up with the friction of eons worth of space matter compacting all around us. The turbulence only brings us closer; it crushes us and makes us concentrated. Our love is now as basic as any of the minerals or gases flying around us.

Time stops. We are back in our physical bodies. I look into her Beautiful eyes and she looks back into mine. I can vaguely sense the nothingness surrounding us as I kiss her and pull her closer. Then it happens. BANG! The blinding white heat roars around us like river rapids of passionate fire. More turbulence and we hold onto each other for our lives. We travel thousands of light years in a heartbeat. The vastness of outer space cradles us as our environment calms and the radiation reverberates in and out of both of us. We hold on as time rebuilds itself. Space rebuilds itself. We kiss for an eternity and while we do the Earth comes together before us. We circle in its orbit while the lower life forms crawl out of the oceans and adapt to breathing the poison gas. We watch the comet kill off the dinosaurs. And soon we come back to the point we left from and find ourselves in bed and under the covers, staring at the ceiling. I can hear a car drive by and the headlights roll around the walls then disappear.

I woke up to an empty house. Steve just called and the guys are nowhere to be found. This is unlike them. Something is either terribly wrong or they just fucked me over. Whichever may be true, it cannot be good. I call Dexter's cell phone and get no answer. I leave him a voicemail about how pissed off I am, because now I'll have to do the whole week with just Steve. This sucks. I wake up Theresa and tell her to be on the lookout for them and to call me as soon as she hears anything.

Sure enough, each building it's me and Steve. They are taking twice as long to clean and it isn't until Wednesday afternoon that I get a call from Dexter.

"What the hell, man?" I answer the phone.

"Spencer! Get the hell out of St. Dresden now!" he said with urgency.

"What? Where are you?" I am caught off guard.

"We're back in Connecticut. We stole a fricken car. Dude listen, you've got to get out of there man."

"I'm not in St. Dresden. I'm in Iowa, at work you asshole."

"Fuck work man! Get on a bus and come home now!"

His phone cut out and I lost the call. I call him back and it goes straight to his voicemail which means it isn't turned on. I call everyone I can think of after that; his mom, Rayden's mom, Rayden's ex girlfriend, Dexter's sister in California, and every friend he may have contacted. Not a single person answers. I leave messages on each number, each message getting progressively more and more desperate. It doesn't make any sense to me. They left all of their stuff at home in St. Dresden. I call Theresa and tell her about it. She listens sympathetically but has no more answers than I do. I tell her to be careful and not leave the house unless she has to, and make sure she carries my butterfly knife with her wherever she did go.

It is really hard to be out here on the road after that call from Dexter. I asked Steve if we could work all hours and get home as quick as possible. So that is what we are doing. We worked 18 hours straight and got three of the four buildings left to do done. We sleep four hours in the truck out in front of the next one instead of getting a hotel. The last building is small and we kick it out in a couple of hours.

I am a complete wreck now. I can't see straight from exhaustion. Steve can't be doing much better. I'll probably be doing half the driving back to town, ten hours away. Funny that after that call all I can think to do is rush back to the place Dexter told me not to go.

On the wireless internet in the truck I send everyone I can think of an e-mail asking if they knew anything. I got nothing back. I finally got a hold of my mom on the phone and had her go check out Dexter's parent's house. She calls me back and says that nobody is home but she will check tomorrow.

What the fuck is going on? I was lucky I was so tired; it was easy to nod off as soon as we hit the interstate. I sleep for three hours and then wake up to drive this big white truck and trailer while Steve sleeps. I drive for three hours and then switch back with him before the Minnesota border so I am not driving when we hit the weigh station.

The relief of getting home, pulling into my apartment parking lot, feels similar to how I imagine Atlas felt when he shrugged. Steve tells me he'll get a couple temps for the next week and we say goodbye.

It's almost noon and Theresa is at work in a clothing store in the mall. The sun overhead is burning so hot that I feel like an ant under god's magnifying glass. It has to be breaking a hundred out here.

Inside, Linda's sitting under a blanket with a cup of coffee in front of her on the table and a book in her hand. The air conditioner is running full blast and it feels so nice. She looks up at me through her reading glasses.

"Spencer! Thank god. Have you heard anything yet?"

"Not a fucking thing." I drop my bag on the floor and collapse onto the other couch. "Nobody is answering their phone Linda. Fucking nobody. It's scary. I'm freaking out about it."

"Well nothing has happened here. I'm sure someone will call pretty soon."

"Well, if they were going to, they would have by now. I'm thinking about getting out of here. Listen to Dexter, ya know? Only if Theresa comes though."

"I would be more afraid to go home," she said. "If everybody's disappearing, I would think that you're better off staying here."

"Disappearing, huh? I hadn't thought of it like that. Yeah! Wow! I've been so tired. But, it's not just people in Connecticut. I called Pennsylvania, California, Florida, and Arkansas, too. It seems more like a giant conspiracy of people hiding from me."

"Maybe Rayden and Dexter are playing a joke on you?"

"Yeah, maybe. I gotta sleep until Theresa gets home."

"I was gunna ask if you wanted coffee."

"No. I gotta sleep."

I get up and go to my room to sleep. The door has been closed so it's hot like an oven. A few degrees higher and it would be painful to breath through my nose like in a sauna. Even still, I drink half a glass of water, take my shirt off and lay down in my dirty jeans. I close my eyes and go out like a light.

We stay in all night long. Watch movies and eat popcorn. It is nice to have Theresa close. The comfort she gives is exactly what I have needed all week long. She doesn't really see the problem with the way things have been happening. My mother called earlier and said that the windows on Dexter's parent's house have been boarded up and their yard is clear of picnic tables and all the other summertime accoutrements that should be strewn about.

"Boarded up, Theresa! Do you get it?"

"Yes, Spencer, I get it. But if you're doing everything you can and not accomplishing anything, then you should relax and I'm sure it will all work itself out over time."

Always the optimist. People are moving and no one will tell me a god damn thing. And she wants me to relax. Of course she is right. She is always right. I have to forget about it. Something is seriously off in the whole god damned universe, but I just have to forget about it.

It's Saturday and Theresa is at work. I ran out of cigarettes so I'm walking up to the gas station beyond the park to get more. I've got some cheap black rubber flip flops on and some white corduroy cut offs and I'm wearing a white t-shirt. I think I broke a sweat as soon as I walked out the door. A decade from now the people around here will be referring to these weeks as the great Minnesota heat wave. The sun stands proud on this afternoon; it stands strong as if guarding the gates of heaven and punishing those who even dare to look upon them.

I hear a strange shrieking noise coming from somewhere to my left by the basketball courts. It's a bunch of Somalis playing basketball or standing around watching the game. There is a public swimming pool also flooded with Somalis. I wouldn't mind a nice dip but I don't really feel like being in the middle of all those differently cultured people. Besides, that pool is probably 55% urine. I see a couple of white college kids playing basketball with all of them. College is out for the summer but those kids must have stuck around.

This is a college town and I live in the college neighborhood. When school gets back in session the whole equilibrium of this area shifts. Instead of hearing little Somali children playing all day, I will be hearing the little college kids playing all night.

There is that noise again. Like nails on a chalkboard on the P.A. in an auditorium. This time it came from behind me.

At the gas station I buy a pair of dark sunglasses. I do not feel like dealing with that thing anymore than I have to. I pack the cigarettes on my hand, open them, and light one. And walk back to my apartment. There are some trees behind the gas station that provides shade as I walk away, but once I get back out into the open I am glad I bought the shades. But damn am I sweating! I hardly sweat very much, but damn, that is not the case today.

With the blinding sun I can't see very well, but it looks like those college kids have wandered off. The game looks like a blur of black men swirling and shouting. But the nails on the chalkboard remain clear as day coming from that basketball game. I look to the ground and flick my cigarette away into the grass. I wish I bought something to drink while I was there. I'm so thirsty. I think I'll have a beer when I get back home, into the air conditioning.

Theresa came home from work at 2:00 and it is still stiflingly hot so we all went to a lakeshore park outside of town for a swim. I brought my guitar with me. In the water she wraps her legs around me and we kiss and I pull her around. Even the water is hot. But it was refreshing. It would have been more refreshing had the place not been packed with people. I have to keep an eye on the shore the whole time to make sure no one ran off with my guitar case.

The three girls are all laid out in the sun getting tan and I'm playing my guitar with my shades on. I strum the chords, G's and C's and others I may as well have made up because I'd be lying if I told you that I understand music. Mostly I stare at that Beautiful girl. She's got her eyes closed and the last drops of water are evaporating off her shoulders. I pluck notes with little melody and strum some more. All around me, I see children and their attending adults; running to and from one another or just sitting and watching the child play in the sand. I used to be those children and one day I will be those adults. I look back to Theresa and silently pray that she'll be there for that.

Monday morning is here again. I stand staring out the living room window at the summer morning first light. The phone is ringing into my ear. I hear the tone for the third time. "Hello. You have reached Steven Distiller with Golden Contractor's. I am not available to take your call right now, please leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as possible." I am beginning to see a pattern here.

It only makes sense to call my mother's cell now. No answer, I leave her a message. I call the house I grew up in. No answer, I leave a message. I call Dexter again. I call Rayden's ex girlfriend. I call everybody again and leave messages with all of them. I call Steve again. Nobody answers. I light a cigarette and take a drink of vodka from the freezer.

I grab Theresa's keys and take her car across town to Dave's place. His two story suburban home hasn't a single car in the driveway. I knock on the door and look in all the windows. The walls are bare and the rooms are empty. Clearly, nobody is living in this house. So I smoke another cigarette. I should run. I should take Theresa's car and get the hell out of Dodge. But it seems like there is nothing left to escape to.

I check the internet for news. Winston, CT is 85 degrees today. The news says something about Connecticut's governor going to jail. New York City is 87 degrees. The news says something about a museum opening. I see nothing about the apocalypse. St. Dresden, MN is 103 degrees. The news says something about some lady giving homeless people clean water. They advise against drinking out of the Mississippi since the scientists found fish with boy and girl parts. Apparently the product of all the birth control residual being flushed away.

I drink more vodka before I wake Theresa up to talk.

"No work today Babe," I said.

"That's nice."

"No. It's not. No work ever again."

"What? Why?" she said, slightly waking up.

"Steve's gone. He left town. I went to his house and it's fucking empty." I lit another cigarette.

It doesn't take her long to catch onto my distress. "Oh my god. You poor thing. Put that out. Come here."

I put out the cigarette and crawl under the covers and she wraps her arms around me.

"I told you not to smoke in here."

"I know, sorry. I'm drunk. My mom's not answering her phone anymore, Theresa. What the fuck is going on?"

I can feel tears welling up but I hold them back and shrug them off. Instead I shift position and take Theresa in my arms and squeeze. I hold her tight. The last remaining artifact of an ancient history only one week in the past. How long until she too is gone? She wriggles free and looks me in the eyes, and then she gives me a kiss.

"Promise me you'll never leave me. You're all I've got left," I said.

"I promise."

If ever a month has taken its toll on the mind and body in a merciless unforgiving onslaught of fear and wrath like this before; I can't imagine it was anything short of Anne Frank hiding in a wall. I have been living paycheck to paycheck so when the last one arrives in the mail I stock the house with food and pay the rent. I take Theresa out to dinner and a movie and say farewell to a life of financial security.

I have no money left now and what's worse is usually when this happens I call my mother and ask for some. But I haven't spoken to my mother in a month. Everyday I pray for her safety, but somehow I know that she is not the one in trouble. I've gotten the number of every relative I have ever met off of the internet, but to no avail. I started calling strangers in Winston, but nobody answers. This phenomenon is not something I have been coping with very well.

Mostly I have taken to my bed for comfort. When people are around I hang out with them in the living room; always I wear pajamas. But I don't like the living room during the day because our window faces west. So everyday after about three o clock the room is flooded with that powerful sun. The heat wave broke a while ago, but the sun is not what I remember it being. When it shines on me it does so with force. I feel it peeling away the layers of my face and pushing me bodily to the floor. So I stay in my room where the blinds are thicker and can stay closed.

I really only leave my room to apply for jobs. This, of course, means I have to go out into the sun. To ease the effect it is having on me I began wearing all black. Something about the color deflects the rays and makes wandering about slightly less excruciating. Which is strange because I always heard it to be the other way around, black attracting the heat from the sun, but you can't argue with results, I guess. It seems all I ever do is apply for jobs anymore. No job ever calls me back.

So I stay in my room. A certain numbness has taken over me. I am unable to contact the outside world. Anything outside of St. Dresden, that is. I even called the white house, a number I had in my phonebook for no particular reason. No answer.

The one exemption to all of this being Theresa's mothers house in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The two of us took a trip down there last week and I told her mother, Adela, all about what was happening to me. Her mother being a person I am able to get along with without having to try at it; a free spirited intelligent older woman who is into Stevie Nicks and Fleetwood Mac and looks the part. The three of us performed experiments with the telephone. What ended up happening was that when Adela picked a number at random, say, somebody in Tennessee, she was able to get through to them. However, when I picked a number for her, Adela was not able to get a hold of anybody. We did this over and over too many times to count.

The most obvious solution to all of this is that I get on a bus and head east; see what the hell is going on for my own two eyes. But unless Theresa comes with me I am not going to do that. Mostly I am afraid to leave the proximity of the single remaining concrete facet of my life. I am having a hard time and she is helping me through it. Because the only solution that I can come up with is that everybody I have ever known is dead. But I know that is not true. For when I call Theresa's mother on the telephone using either my phone, or Theresa's phone, or a payphone, she does not answer. And then when Theresa calls Adela does answer. She tells us that she never even hears the phone ring nor does the caller ID record any activity. Also, Theresa is unable to get through when calling to verify the results of our experiments, only when calling with some agenda of her own can she get through. I do not understand how this all seems to overflow onto her. If this is a problem of mine, how can it affect her? How does she not get through to her mother? Should I feel guilty about it? Am I creating more problems in her life than I am worth?

If everyone is not dead, then I am left to wonder if I even still exist. At least, do I exist in any conventional sense? And why the fuck is this happening to me? The last time I checked, life consisted of being born, living a dull, pointless, mundane life, and then dying. Why is it, that I get stuck with the greatest reality complex that I have ever heard of? I am feeling like a schizophrenic, except that schizophrenics for one thing have it much worse than I do, and for another thing, aren't all that aware of anything being wrong with them. I think.

So now with no money, I miss the beer the most. And the vodka a close second. But that has given me something to look forward to, because Theresa gets paid every other week and with her check we can get drunk once or twice. Also, Linda works and buys occasionally. The dulling sensation is so nice. It turns those teeth clamping down on my head into more of a gumming sensation. Really all I want is to hear my mother's voice again. I know she is out there, but where am I?

Besides in my room, hiding. Hiding from the sun and hiding from everything outside the apartment. Every stoplight and every face behind a windshield is a reminder that I am not dead. In here there is nothing. I read, or I stare into the television, a constant reminder that, yes, there is still a world out there, but no, I am not part of it. I play my guitar and I smoke cigarettes. I got Theresa to keep her clothes in Rayden's old room so I won't get cigarette stink all over them. On the walls are my two tapestries of dead rock musicians. Something tells me that it is those tapestries that are indeed what is keeping me safe inside these walls. I have had them since my smallest teenage years and the frayed holes in each of their four corners are proof of years and years of being taken down and put back up; proof that I exist. The same goes for an old photo album; eight years of memories and non memories from the drug years. An artifact similar to cave paintings, ancient pottery, and petrified bones.

I stare at the door and think about going out into the kitchen to eat, but I let myself starve because the rest of the apartment has teeth. In here there are no teeth; everywhere else is biting. I step on them, I walk into them; they are on everything I touch like needles on cacti. At least, they are there while the sun is up.

When the sun goes down it all gets a little easier for me. The teeth recede back into wherever they came from. I can roam in a little more comfort. I eat at night and I watch movies in the living room while Theresa sleeps. And now my sleeping pattern is such that I hardly ever see daylight, and sadly I am seeing less and less of Theresa. She always runs off into the world as soon as she wakes up and when she comes home I am surely asleep. I can only really spend the time with her from when the sun goes down and I wake up until the time that she goes to sleep. I miss the time when we would spend all day together sharing the things that this life had to offer us and our late carefree spirits.

Soon school will begin for her and we will grow further apart. She will work, I will work, she will go to school, I'll go to sleep, she'll go to sleep and I will wake up, and I only hope we will get enough time in between to stay as close as we used to be. Somehow I doubt that will be the case.

A funny thing happened when I walked out of this Laundromat just now. I was applying for a job that, oddly enough and at long last, I feel confident that I will get. I'll be doing maintenance and janitorial work. But more importantly, the fucking sky is on fire! In every direction deeply, deep, red flames are igniting everything that used to be blue. There are no fluffy clouds or migrating geese. Instead I see rolling patches of orange and explosions of purplish blues. I feel faint and rush to Theresa's car. I light a cigarette and stare mind numbingly at the sky. The surface of the sun is kissing our atmosphere.

I've got to get out of this parking lot. I should run inside for cover, but I need to get home to my Beautiful girl. I've got to make sure she's ok. I blow through red light after red light. Car horns explode as I fly through a busy intersection; I'm doing 90 miles an hour in this black Pontiac sedan, tapping the wheel left or right to get around everyone in my way. I can hardly see through this blinding light. What the fuck is wrong with these people? It's the apocalypse, get out of my way! I gawk in awe as I drive. If I weren't so utterly terrified I would stop to notice that this is actually the greatest thing I have ever witnessed. A few more turns and I'll be home.

I get out of the car and run to the apartment door, I turn to take one more look and I realize that I am not feeling any heat. I see an upside down mushroom cloud engulf the higher area of the visible horizon before I unlock the door and run up the three flights of stairs and into my apartment. I immediately go to the living room window and look out at everything as it glows and flickers, the bright light shadows of brighter light dance across the landscape of the park. Theresa is not out here, I shake off the trance induced by that moment of gazing and run to the bedroom and throw open the door. She jumps back against the wall and throws her book.

"Spencer, Jesus!"

I throw myself at her and take her in my arms. I want to ask her if she is ok. I want to ask what the fuck is going on. I want to cry. To tell her it's all going to be alright. But I am physically speechless.

"Spencer, what is wrong? You're shaking!" she said with worried panic in her voice. "Tell me what is wrong!"

I choke out in a shudder, "The sky! Did you see the sky?" I push her away from me, grabbing her shoulders and looking in her eyes. "Have you seen the fucking sky, Theresa?"

"What about the sky?" she shouted in my face, I had frightened her.

"Look!" I stand up and rip open the blinds; flooding the room with the intensity of the fire and light. I step back at the shock of it. Deep red roaring around up there. The entirety of the visible sky was in flames.

"What about it?" she said, standing next to me and peering every which way out the window.

"The fucking thing is on fire!" I yell.

"Where?" She had desperation in her voice.

"The whole thing," I said quietly. My eyes fixated on what I was seeing; on the burning sky.

"Spencer, look at me."

I couldn't react.

"Look at me Spencer! Now!" she screams into my ear. I hear a tiny voice and look to it. She was studying me.

Then in her eyes, I knew. I saw it. The sky isn't on fire. I mean, it clearly is. But not to her. I knew what that meant; not to anyone else either. I have one more look out the window at the glowing park and barely notice the Somali children before I collapse onto our futon in front of the window. Everything goes fuzzy yellow and red very quickly and then blacks out for a second. The colorful fuzzy vision comes back and recedes to the edges of my sight and is gone. I am lying down. There is frozen vegetables on my head and chest.

I shoot up to my feet and look at the sky burning red. My knees are weak and I again fall to the bed but manage to land sitting against the wall.

"Please close the blinds baby."

She does. And then she hands me some ice cold water. "Drink this." I do.

"The sky isn't on fire, is it?" I ask her.

"No, dear, it's not." She said with some relief in her voice. Clearly she grasps the situation now.

"Light me a cigarette, please." And she does. "I'm losing it, Theresa. I still see the fire." Listlessly. "It's still there."

"I know. It's ok." She kisses the side of my head, wraps her arms around my chest and puts her head on my shoulder.

"I love you, Rosehip," I said.

"I love you, too, sweetheart."

While I may have only a few interpersonal relationships in my life, they seem like many to me. I am a solitary creature; all I need is the love of my Beautiful girl. As such, I can count on one hand all of my friends and acquaintances. I know a girl named Nexus, who dated Rayden for a short while. I know Linda. I know Theresa. And I know my downstairs neighbor Jacob. That's not counting work but I hardly know those people anyway. They are all older adults and I have trouble looking them in the eyes. They are really more like props in the play of my life. That is not counting all of my dear friends and family who no longer exist.

My downstairs neighbor has a get together every Thursday night during the school year. I went to them whenever possible the last semester. Tonight is the first this time around. School has indeed been back in session for about a month now.

The parties he has are a kind of a relief to me because I feel comfortable there. There is not that intimidation factor that comes along in being someplace new. A certain locale seniority. I know all the other faces that frequent his place and I feel comfortable with them. And I will admit that I take a certain satisfaction from not giving a fuck about the new faces that roll through.

Three quick knocks on his door and he opens up a moment later.

"What's going on? Come in," he says.

He's a tall blond dude with spiky hair and kind uninterested blue eyes. He's got that party student look in gym shorts and a white T-shirt. The senior who took his first drink of vodka as a freshman. He works hard at his schooling and appreciates the exercise of blowing off steam every now and again with some pretty girls, rap music, and a beer pong table.

I hand him a twenty dollar bill. "Get me a case of beer?"

He takes the money, "Alright."

"Who's all going to be here tonight?" I ask. Adding "all" in a sentence where it does not belong is an example of the Midwest dialect I have picked up in my time out here. The question is a formality for I know exactly who will be here.

"Shelly pants, and Tina, Angel, that goth chick, and Chris, the two Melissa's, and they're all probably gunna bring people with them. There should probably be about thirty people here."

"You need help with the beer run?"

"Nah, I'm picking up Chris on the way."

"Alright. Well. I'll be down around ten or so."

"Later." "Later." I turn and walk out.

Now this is not to say that I enjoy these parties. Matter of fact, the awful practice of constant house parties that goes on in this area is something I have many problems with. I resent these kids at college. Experiencing for the first time a freedom that I found when I was thirteen. I find myself a little jealous that that discovery is ancient history to me and so new to them. That newness is something I will never get back, and something I truly miss. The entire world is suddenly wide open to them. Having spent their high school years trying to get here, it is only vindication that they spend all their free time drinking and shouting. Of course this is one of the reasons I never made it to college, I spent my entire adolescence drinking and shouting. The worst part is the college girl's place in all of this.

Yeah, come to think of it, I fucking despise those things. They are sick. A girl will go to one and if she is at least somewhat attractive she will be treated like royalty because every guy knows that she might fuck one of them. At these same parties every guy is spit on by every other guy because they are getting in the way of them fucking one of these girls. There is so much humanity involved I could puke.

That is the way of the modern college kid. And the love of my life is one of these modern college kids, so I must cater to the urges that scream through her unconsciousness. Hence, I created this routine for her. Every Thursday she gets her weekly dosage of drunken idiocy. I get some beer. I really like beer. For the most part we both get drunk and end up fighting. Sometimes we end up screwing; I prefer that. Either way it keeps her off the streets on Friday and Saturday; the worst nights of the week.

Those nights are the hardest to keep her to myself. Every moment I fear that her cell phone may ring and on the end will be an invite to some shithole townhouse with a few kegs. Every moment I fear her desire to be free breaking out from the cage I work so hard to create around it. Yes, I try to lock her up. Only because she is a social beast. Out there there is too much shit that I do not have control over. Mostly the other guys waiting to attack her with their raging testosterone. She gets so drunk that she has no idea what the fuck is going on around her. No matter how close I watch her I cannot defend her from the combined will of 60 frat boys. This is all me being proactive. I am the Shepard, she is the sheep, and they are the wolves, so fuck letting her out of my sight.

She'll be home from work around nine, I get Thursdays off and work Sundays instead. So I'm reading a book in my bedroom with some music playing on my laptop. The flaming sky so intense through my closed blinds the deep red creates an effect like a brightly lit darkroom.

I hear a piercing explosion of pain from right inside my ear, and it jolts me away from Dostoyevsky's St. Petersburg. In shock, I turn off my music and sit listening. It comes again, this time in short bursts in rapid succession; coming from the window. I stand up and throw open the blinds, bracing for the flood of light. I adjust my eyes and look for the sound. I'm cringing, grinding my teeth. I look down at them. College kids, four of them. Two are walking backward and throwing a football to the others. All of them wearing fall workout clothes, windbreakers and such. I notice the interesting way in which the backward walkers move. Looking over their shoulder and turning side ways in shifts, one and then the other.

Like vocal lightning I am struck again and again by the noises coming from their mouths. It feels like a knife carving jagged lines across my jaw by my ears. I close my window which had been open for air. I close the blinds and turn the music on. I light a cigarette and push on my temples with my palms. The noise fades as they move away. My heart is pounding in my chest. I take heavy drags, moving my hand in a circle and saying to myself under my breath, "Breathe in the good, breathe out the bad. Breathe in the good, breathe out the bad."

I'm hungry but night has not fallen yet. I want a microwave burrito from the freezer. I put my converse on to protect my feet from the floors and step out into the hall. I gaze at the teeth covering the walls, covering the floor, and coating the ceiling. They undulate as I slowly walk through them. They look like shark teeth, hundreds of thousands of them. This hall is so long and I'm tiptoeing to avoid making sudden movements. In the corner of my eye the teeth are getting closer, in front of me the hall way stretches into the next century. Those teeth are going to crush me! I bolt for the kitchen and I feel the rush of air as the jaws of the hallway close behind me. In the kitchen I am safe. More open space out here. But now the hallway is gone; replaced by a pearly white wall of razor bone. I wonder how I'll get back into my room.

I use a ladle to open the fridge and open the cabinet to get out a cup. The teeth grow from every square inch of surface. I pour myself some orange juice and grab an apple. I do not feel like being out here long enough to heat a burrito. The hallway opened right up anyway. I cannot risk getting back to the sanctuary of my room.

There is a tall lamp that I can use. I'm sure the jaws will crush that no problem; that's what I'm going to try. I pull a thick winter jacket from the closet and put my apple in the mouth of my cup. Outside the living room window, the fire is chaotic in the sky. Flames that remind me of the pictures of solar flares I have seen in books make arcs in and out of the burning mass. Jumping out and back under like dolphins in a downside up sea in the sky. I try not to look at it as much as possible. Everyday on my way to work I find myself nearly rear ending every car as I stop and go. The sky distracts me. That is, the act of looking away because it burns my eyes but at the same time wanting to stare into it like a stoner at a bonfire.

I wrap the jacket around the lamp to protect me from the teeth and unplug it with my juice hand. After a single deep breath, I run down the hall to my door and just before I reach it the lamp becomes stuck. I let go of the lamp and jacket and with the hand I had been holding them in with I throw open my door and slam it behind me. I put the plastic cup and apple down and search for a dirty towel for my hand. I am bleeding everywhere; down my arm and all over the carpet.

I blot away all the flowing blood and take a look. At least a dozen crescent shaped gashes across my right palm. I light a cigarette and sit down, squeezing the towel while the blood clots. All this for a fucking apple and some juice. They don't usually attack like that. Something is wrong today. Things are getting worse it seems. I thought I had been doing well, considering.

I'm watching the weather channel and I hear Theresa come home from work. The Doppler radar shows a thick cloud mass moving toward the town. Severe thunderstorm warnings are being issued at each county as it moves along. The storm will be here in a couple hours.

"Spencer what happened to the lamp?" she said; standing in the doorway holding the crushed aluminum, or whatever it's made out of.

"That thing saved my life," I said.

She left it in the hallway and came in shrugging; she threw her jacket on the floor. I was sitting cross legged on the futon, looking up at her.

"There's blood everywhere." And there was. I made an awful mess of the carpet. "What happened?" she asked.

"I got hungry while it was still light out." I held out my hand for her to look at.

She gasped. "Oh my god! Have you cleaned that?"

"Yeah, I washed it about an hour ago." Some of the cuts are actually pretty deep. I can't really close that hand very well anymore.

"What did you do?"

"It was the fucking teeth on the doorknob. The hallway's what mangled that lamp. Better the lamp than me."

"Spencer." Sitting next to me on the bed she started crying. "You're falling apart Spencer."

I pulled her close and held her head to my chest with my good hand. I said, "I know. It's getting worse too. The hallway tried to eat me. And there were these college kids walking by and they were making this noise and it almost gave me a heart attack."

She still cried. We lay down and I squeezed her. "Everything is going to be just fine," I said. "Jacob downstairs is having a party, and I got us beer. Ok?"

"Ok."

I kiss her. The sweet kisses of reassurance. Reassurance that in world of abandonment and fiery skies, toothy walls and shrieking people, some thing's cannot be fucked with. Some things are not subject to change without reason. Some things can be counted on. As I kiss her, I remember my mother with an accepting air of sentiment. As I kiss her, I think of Dexter and I know that wherever he is he is probably having a good time. I think of Rayden and know that wherever he is he is probably making someone laugh. I forget about the burning sky and my wounded hand. I savor this moment like an old person with a hard candy; letting each granule of sugar dissolve into their taste buds as if it were the last taste they would ever taste. Somehow I know that this is not just another kiss.

Our lips part and I take a look at her. A look at that face that melts my soul. Evaporating tears have smeared her eye makeup and water droplets rest precariously upon her bottom lids. She is still sad for me. I no longer feel worried about a thing. I am detached from earthly concerns, with a head in the clouds; I am a sad child's balloon, free and still trailing a shining string of love.

Her sadness pains me, so I kiss her again hoping that the sweet romance will free her spirit the way it frees mine. It does. Her passion bursts from her heart and into me and I squeeze her tight and she squeezes back harder. She kisses me deep as if she too knows this could be the last time.

We go back to our timeless outer space.

I am taking a shower and Theresa said she is going to go down there now. Through the walls in the bathroom I hear piercing shrieks. The sound is dense; clearly coming from dozens of people. It's unnerving to say the least.

I put on my nice jeans that I got in New York. I only own two pairs of jeans, nice jeans and work jeans. I put on black socks. I put on a black Nirvana shirt that fits tight but loose and is made of really light and soft cotton, if it is cotton; I don't know. I put on a baggy fitting black button up shirt over it, and I don't button it. I put on my black Converse all-stars. I stuff my cigarettes and lighter in one pocket of these semi-tight blue jeans. In the other pocket I stuff my cell phone and my butterfly knife. I carry a knife whenever I go out partying. I don't trust any of these college assholes not to start a fight, all that testosterone steaming from their pores. It's hard to keep a low profile when the prettiest girl in the room is hanging on your arm. Strictly it's just a precaution, like bringing a harpoon when swimming with sharks.

I walk out of the apartment where I am immediately greeted by deafening shrieking. It's ok, I tell myself. I've been going to concerts and playing loud rock music for ages, what harm can a little shrieking do. I adjust and carry on.

The reality of the situation is that half of the noise is actually coming from the apartment adjacent to Jacob's. Apparently they too are partying. Not very shocking. I walk into Jacob's place and see some people on the couches playing video games. In the kitchen a group stands around playing darts or watching darts be played. I nod at some guys I know across the room. Some girl gives me a hug and I say "Hey, What's up?" I give props to some dudes I know and say "What's up?" I hug another girl and say "Hi, What's up?"

I get to the fridge and grab a beer. In the first bedroom a crowd watches a game of beer pong. Theresa is in here talking to Linda. I walk over to her and give her a kiss. I can feel the eyes of some guy across the room avert in disappointment.

"Hey, Linda. When'd you get here?" I asked.

"Like a half hour ago. I'm drinking one of your beers."

"Yeah. Help yourself."

On the one end of the table there is Jacob and a short blond girl I don't recognize. On the other end Chris is with this girl that I don't know. I give him props when he looks over at me. Standing against the walls are faces I don't know and faces that I do. As soon as I get settled into watching the game, the shrieking picks up. I can hear the things everyone is saying but it's all quiet and soft and hard to make out under the screaming, oddly pitched, sound they release when they go to speak. I keep quiet and chug my beer. It seems a good idea to get drunk because sometimes alcohol helps with these sorts of things. I tap Theresa on the shoulder and ask her to come out into the hall with me.

"I can't hear anything very well."

"Like how?" she asks.

"Everybody is making that noise I was telling you about. It's like they're screaming."

"Do you want to leave?"

"No. Can we go smoke a cigarette?

We go out in front of the building with about three other people and Linda. It has begun to rain. Thank god. The voices of the people with us are starting to hurt me. Standing out in the dark drizzle I get some relief. I feel the cool electric air of the coming thunderstorm. I feel my button down shirt flowing behind me in the wind like a hippie dances in the grass. Theresa comes to my side and puts her arms around me and I embrace her for a moment and then walk with her back to under the awning where everyone else is standing. I take a drag from my cigarette and a sip from my beer and it is then that I get a look at my hand. It's covered in blood, but not from the gashes. The other hand is no different; blood soaked front and back. I wipe my face and take a look at the smeared blood on my good palm. I step away from my girl and look at her face; also covered in blood. The concrete barrier to the shrub garden that lines the brick building is illuminated by the awning light and is bloody as well. It's raining blood. I keep this to myself although it takes all the fortitude I can muster not to grab Theresa and barge through all these people to get back indoors.

I whisper in her ear, "It's raining blood."

She looks up at me, "You're kidding."

I shook my head no and took another drag of my cigarette and a swig of my beer. And another swig of my beer. And another.

Theresa is holding her head to my chest and some girl says what a cute couple we are. I don't disagree. Never could I find a girl that matches me so perfectly as her. Nor would I want to. For the most part the others are talking amongst themselves. From her place under my arm, Theresa joins the conversation but I can't pay attention. I stare at the bloody concrete, trying to ignore the shrieking people standing with us. It doesn't so much hurt once you get used to it, but it does not let up either. I can hear it coming from other points in the night. From other apartments in the distance and I can hear a lot of it coming from across the park. From everywhere, really. Like cicadas in the forest at dusk. The wind is picking up now and I flick my cigarette away and wait for my girl to finish hers and we walk hand in hand inside and back to the party on the second floor.

I give her a kiss, grab two beers from the fridge, and walk over to the couch to play video games. I figure it will involve the least amount of social interaction and social interaction was the last thing I can handle right now. Amidst the shrieking I sit and wait for a controller to be abandoned and I swept it up. I let my mind become immersed in the one on one martial arts fighting on the screen. If I focus on the movements of my hand, I can almost block out the sounds that are stabbing at my head like knives. I can almost block out the fact that out of the corner of my eye I can see Theresa taking shots of vodka with a couple random skanks. Almost. And I can almost block out the bunch of girls suggesting a group migration to a house party across the park. I can almost block those things out.

Something I cannot almost block out is that as I look to my left at the guy I am mindlessly playing video games with, even though he is wearing a red baseball cap and has some brown facial hair, I notice his face is clearly made of plastic. I swallow hard. I swallow some beer. Hard. The fight ends on the television screen and I put down the controller, stand up, and walk to the kitchen counter, where I am watching three guys playing darts. I see three plastic guys playing darts. Six foot tall Ken dolls.

I see Theresa about to take a shot that is being handed to her by a plastic chubby girl with bleached blond hair. All around everyone has turned to plastic; skin shining and unrealistically solid. The scene is surreal as they make their ways to and fro. Their movements are choppy, like bad claymation. I am terrified right now. This is reminiscent of certain nightmares of my childhood, where I am seeing something so terrible, some monster or something, it would reduce me to a corner where I close my eyes and curl up in the fetal position and though I cannot see whatever is so terrifying because my eyes are closed, that does not change anything; it is still there.

Theresa is chasing her shot and I signal for her to come over to me.

"Can we leave please?" I ask her.

"We're all going to a party across the park," she said.

"I'd really like to go lay down. Will you come? Please."

"No. You go and I'll be home later."

"Everybody is made of plastic and I'm freaking out."

"Then get out of here."

"I need you to come with me."

"No, Spencer."

"Please?" I said. Half begging.

"No. You're pissing me off." And she walks off. A solitary piece of flesh amongst a crowd of plastic figurines. All around, the shrieks of these things bounce and echo off the walls. I get a beer from the fridge and walk out the door and up the stairs to my place.

There was some frozen pizza Linda had made before she went to sleep in the fridge. I heat it in the microwave and sit at the kitchen table looking out the living room window. The lightning has begun and I watch. When a sheet of rain crashes into the window I get up to look. Between the shadows I cast and the darkness of the outside, I can't tell; until a flash lit up the world; the rain is still blood. The sky is bleeding. Thunder shakes the building to it's foundation and in this moment I almost breakdown with tears of joy, because for the few seconds I hear no shrieking.

I am standing here finishing my beer. I don't really know what to do anymore. Those people down there are really hard to look at and to talk to. They scare the shit out of me. Well, that is to say, they give me the creeps really bad. But I can't let Theresa go out there by herself. I have to go to that fucking party is what comes to mind. God, the things I would rather do. Walking through fire comes to mind.

Back at Jacob's place I notice two things. For one thing, 35% percent of the female population has disappeared. That includes the love of my life. The other thing is these three guys playing darts by the door. They have turned to black, well most of them. They are still plastic, but now black plastic. The blackness does not cover their entire bodies. Rather it leaves their faces white and crawls across their bodies from the back to the front.

I greet their eyes and the smallest of the three guys has eyes that glow red and piercing. Almost all of his face is black except the tip of his nose. The tallest of them's faces is hardly black, only a little past his ears. The middle sized one is of course, somewhere in between, with yellow eyes that glow dull.

I find Jacob who has also turned to plastic. "Jacob. You got an extra back pack I can use?"

"What for?" he asks.

"For beer."

"Oh. Ok." He walks off and comes back with an old floppy dark blue bag.

"Thanks man. Are you going to that party across the way?" I ask.

"I might later."

"Alright, cool, I'm heading there now. Later."

"Later."

I fill the bag with eight beers or so and walk out into the night. At the apartment door I light a cigarette and walk outside under the awning, where I look to my feet and see that blood has gathered in puddles at the entrance. I know that I should stay home; but I cannot let anything happen to my Beautiful girl.

The storm is fierce. The best ones always are. I walk out into the stinging blood rain and the gusting wind, protecting my cigarette by cupping it in my hand. Lightning is flashing from a thousand points at once, from every direction. And with every crash of thunder I pick up my gait a little bit. The storm is so strong that I hear nothing but rushing wind as I walk across the park. The first moment of peace I've had since I got out of the shower.

I am soaked to the bone now and it feels great. Rain is not dishonest and has not a single ulterior motive. That is to say that rain is inhuman. Rain is the greatest comfort I have ever known. Lately I have wanted to drop a nuclear bomb on this god forsaken pit from hell. Then I'll get sad because I have no bomb to drop. But when the rain falls and burdens so many people with discomfort, I rejoice in a moment of victory. For whatever it is truly worth. I am soaked because I am out here. I trust the rain to watch over me. To bring everyone down to the level that my mind resides. I am soaked in my only ally.

I stop out here in the field. In the spot where I would play guitar in the summer. I reach into the back pack and get out a beer. I open the beer and tilt my head back. In essence I am pouring the beer over myself, but some goes in my mouth. I get another beer and shake it up. I open it and let it spray out into storm and then punt the can. I fall to my knees in the muddy grass. I put my face into the sopping earth and scream. I scream until the earth turns inside out and it was drops of me falling from the sky onto a boy named the world.

I lift my head and look to the house in the distance shining through with all the lights on. It shines through the heavy rain like a lighthouse warning me where to stay away from. I get to my feet and taste the blood off my upper lip; it tastes salty and thick. And I move forward in the rain grabbing a beer from my bag and opening it.

I cross a street and come upon the house and I walk up the side steps and into a dirty kitchen with trash strewn about. Plastic people are dancing to a boom box playing the top 40 rap that everyone with no taste or personality listens to nowadays. The piercing noise here is deafening. I can hardly hear anything over it; it's like having 60 weed whackers being revved up in a small area. I recognize one person I got in a street fight with a long time ago. I recognize him even though his entire body is jet black plastic and his eyes are red and electric. The floor in this kitchen is covered in bloody footprints and when I look around I see blood on everything and on everyone. I look at my hands also covered in blood, I wipe them on my pants and wipe the blood off my face and clean my hands on my pants again.

I find her and she is so drunk. With spinning eyes she asks me "What the fuck are you doing here?" She tells me to go away because no one wants me there.

"Come home with me please?" I beg.

"No. Fuck you." And she runs off.

There is a covered patio facing the street with a thin wooden door for access from the living room. I go out there and smoke a cigarette. A few of these things are smoking pot.

"Can I hit that?" I ask.

The one holding the pipe finishes toking and immediately turns to black as he hands me the gold colored metal pipe. Out of the corner of my eye I see his red glowing eyes while I take a deep inhalation of marijuana. I say thank you and hand it back to him. The intensity of his eyes subsides but he stays black. I find a chair and smoke my cigarette.

My Beautiful girl is out there. A prisoner of her own culture. There are windows that look into the kitchen and I can see her dancing. The dance of our times which is nothing more than concentrated sexual energy being released through the hips and ass. I stub the cigarette out in an ashtray and walk out the door and to the edge of the bloody kitchen.

She is dancing with some girls around some guys. I see some plastic asshole with a stupid goatee and a leather jacket put his arm around her waist. I rush forward and remove it. "She doesn't need that in her life." I tell him, shouting through the all encompassing shriek. He steps away, turning black; eyes white with heat. Plastic people covered in blood are everywhere and it reminds me of some wax museum from a forgotten nightmare.

I take her by the arm, "Why are you doing this? Leave with me. Please. Now! Please!"

She says to me, "Leave me the fuck alone!"

Feeling dizzy I back away and lean against a wall watching her from frightened eyes. Eyes torn between looking away from the horror and not looking away from the object of their affection.

She starts making out with the girls she is dancing with; kissing deeply, tongues entwined, and grinding their bodies together. This guy I am standing next to looks at me and says, "I'll drink to that."

I reply, "I'd rather drink to my mother's death."

Seeing the girl I love, the girl I respect for always having class, be another dumb college slut tears me apart inside. Then it happened. She too, turned to plastic. I was alone now. She was plastic. All around me I see these plastic people turning to black. Not all of them, but most of them.

I retreat to the porch for another cigarette and I watch her through the window. Everything that was my life is now gone. She was the last of it and seeing her there, the same as the rest of them was too much. I chug the beer I had in my hand and take deep panicked drags off of my cigarette.

Then, watching her through the window, I see the asshole with the goatee approach her.

I call her cell phone and leave her this message:

"Right now I am watching you dancing with that fucker with the goatee. He has been following you all night and waiting for his chance to get close to you when I'm not around. You have become plastic like everybody else. You did this to us Theresa. We could have stayed home and this would not have happened. Now you are dancing and rubbing yourself all over him and you've got that fucking grin on your face that you get when you are drunk and talking to a guy that is not me and he's about to kiss you..."

I get out of the chair I'm in and go pull him off of her. I say to her, "Theresa, stop this now. You are becoming one of them! You have to leave with me now, please, let's go, now!" I push her through the crowd and towards the door.

She yells, "Get off of me you fucking asshole! This is who I am!"

I let go and look around. I am in the middle of the dance floor and all around I see plastic frat boys turning black; their eyes set ablaze like torches in a lynch mob.

I feel myself be pushed from behind. I turn around to this giant black monster of a college kid, his eyes burn through me and I punch him in the face and head for the door. I am thrown over the three concrete steps and into the mud. I reach into my pocket and pull out my knife and flip it open. A plastic creature lands on top of me, maybe the one I punched, maybe not. He pins me to the earth with his weight. As he lifts his fist high in the air an instant away from bringing the hammer down I raise my knife up and plunge it into his chest aiming for his heart. I remove the blade and push his limpness off of me.

Before I can get to my feet I am tackled again. And again as another one falls on top of the first. My arm is free from all this crushing weight and I stab the knife into someone's back and the shrieking stuns me for a moment until I hear the thud of the second one punching the first one in the head while aiming for me. I am on an incline and was able to roll out from underneath them.

I get to my feet and in a flash of lightning I see these black creatures closing in around me.

"He's got a knife!" Someone shouts.

A few of them charge me all at once. I stab the first one who came upon me in the chest. Taking several quick steps backward; another jumps at me. As he does, I rush past him and gore the knife into his side.

Another stands alone timidly, as if he was going to attack until he saw me notice him. He freezes like the squirrel the bullet narrowly missed and as I rush at him his eyes turn from red to blue. I throw a left kick to distract him and put the knife into his left bicep. I move away from him as he drops to the ground squeezing the wound.

Someone runs at me but I move to the side and they slip in the mud of the knoll that this is all happening on. They land on their face and I jump onto their back and thrust the knife into the soft spot on the back of his head. I turn and see two blue eyes rushing toward me. I think to myself, blue means he's afraid.

Again I move out of the way and stab at him making contact but unsure of where and then get to my feet.

"Leave me the fuck alone!" I scream.

Then a bright light flashes in front of my eyes, but it was not lightning. I swing the knife and as my vision clears I see someone falling to the ground with a butcher knife in their hand. My hand is at his neck and my knife is in his throat. His free hand is gripping my wrist. I pull away and reach for his knife to throw it far away from anyone who might use it against me, but my left arm does not work. I stab him through his yellow dying eye and take the butcher knife with my knife hand and throw it.

More light in my eyes and I am disoriented and falling, having been punched in the head. I become aware of the rain falling on my face. I can see again and just in time to put the knife into the next person that jumped at me.

"Use a rock!" I hear someone say.

I get up to run and an impact to my back sends me falling into the bloody street and can feel the skin on my face split and peel but it does not hurt. I turn over and see these creatures kicking me in the ribs. A bolt of lightning flashes and I see someone in a leather jacket standing over me holding a large rock in his hand. I watch him bring it down to my face and I never hear the thunder.

...............................

"I'll kill him. I'll kill him. I'll kill him. I'll kill him. I'll kill him. I'll kill him. I'll kill him. I'll kill him." I say under my breath through the most painful sobs. Sobs that hurt like a thousand bamboo shoots rammed into a thousand finger nails. "I'm going to hunt him down and kill him. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him. I'll kill him. I fucking swear I'll kill him. I'll kill him."

I cry more. Right here in the corner of this dirty bathroom. Desperate yelps with my face in my hands, between a wall and a toilet. I'm moaning and wailing and the tears and snot are running down my forearms.

I light a cigarette. I bought the pack just before I got here. I haven't smoked in so long until now. I lit it but as I tried to take a drag it just shook spastically in my trembling lips and I threw it into the toilet before I could even inhale. Here I have been crying for what seems like forever. Nothing will ever be ok again. It takes all the strength I have not to take the stairs to the roof and throw myself off.

I pick up my head and now I am filled with intent. I have to see her again. I run out of the bathroom and down the hall and take a left and run to the third door on my right.

There she is. Oh my god. My little girl. Oh my god! And the tears hit again. Harder this time, I fall to the ground wailing. "What did he do to her?" I cry out loud.

I stand up and look through the glass. She was once so beautiful but now thick stitching runs down the entire right side of her face. A nurse is dressing a wound on her shoulder. She is laid out there, groggy, drugged, ruined forever. Placed in five point restraints. My sweet sweet daughter. Once the greatest thing my life had ever given me. Ruined.

Her eyes are open and her mouth as well. She is looking at the nurse, her lips are moving. I shoot through the door and to the bedside opposite the older short nurse.

"What did she just say?" I ask aggressively. Over emotionally.

"Nothing, Miss. She didn't even make a sound."

My daughter looks at me. Her eyes stare at me, into me, through me, and yet she doesn't even really see me at all. Her face is like a fish gasping for its last breath on the deck of a boat. She looks back at the nurse, her head moves slowly. Her mouth stays open in a small O the whole time.

This is the girl I taught to ride a bike. This is the girl that ignored me throughout her teenage years. The girl I watched grow day by day, week by week, month by month, second by second, and year by year. And this is what happens. Her life is ruined and she was so full of promise.

The doctor said she has late stage syphilis and it has affected her brain. But she doesn't have normal syphilis; she has a new super syphilis, rapid syphilis. It should have taken at least ten years to get to this point. That piece of shit meth-head ex boyfriend of hers gave her this. The crystal meth made it rapid.

She loved him so much and as hard as I tried to keep them apart, I never could. She was going away to college and he was going with her; with or without my blessing. And two months into her freshman year he just split. One day he told her goodbye and went back to New York City or wherever the hell he came from; that was it. He left her with this shit. Super syphilis, and once it had affected her brain it quickly drove her insane.

The nurse leaves the room and I collapse to the floor beside her and squeeze her wounded hand in mine. Four people are dead. Children with mothers. Three more are hospitalized. Multiple others suffered minor injuries. Jesus Christ.

Why didn't anyone see this coming? Why did it have to come to this?

..............................

Here in this hospital room I lay. Restrained and drugged. I can say nothing and I cannot move. I wonder what her mother is doing here. And I wonder when I'll see my Beautiful girl again.

00000000000000000000000000000000000

Societies a joke/ Humanities a mess/ And inside my walls/ My head caves in with stress/ In the soul of this community/ Is a bunch of broken gears/ And they're falling to the floor/ Like Ben Franklin's tears

Over the past few years/ We've watched the world get worse/ Can you tell me what is left/ That our children might look forward to?/ But another burden/ In our sad unstable fortitude/ This sad unstable fortitude

What about the children/ Who have waited all these years?/ Trying to get where they're going/ But it's an empty destination/ They spend their lives in college/ Learning useless information/ To get a worthless piece of paper/ That cannot hold its weight in water

The economies collapsing/ And everybody's struggling/ The people who can change things/ Don't give a fuck about anything/ It's so real to you and me/ But we don't matter to them/ No we don't matter to them

Societies a joke/ Humanities a mess/ Inside my four walls/ My head has caved in from stress/ It's so real to you and me/ But we don't matter to them

No we don't matter to them/ My friend

More and more grow penniless/ More and more go penniless/ We are out of work these days / Now more and more MD's/ Spend their nights waiting tables/ They are thinking about their degrees/ As they put the food on the table/ They know their minds are so able/ Their minds are so capable/ Of very much more/ If they only had an opportunity/ If they had a decent economy/ If they weren't living to die/ In the fallout of greed

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Young Beasts

Curly might have been trying to keep the hostility away from himself; create a certain distance between him and the friction of the energy undulating in this coliseum of tension and virulence. What demon had possessed the consciousness of this terror he was fighting? Was he about to die on a cross? Would this hostility succumb to the will of the powers that be? Succumb to the forces striking down from the heavens; with incredible voices and the authority to bring down the wrath of god?

Stepping back for a moment; heeding the instruction of the energy that controls him. He put his wrists to his ears. Leather, the winter jacket. Rolling in that field. Dead leaves and dirt, and the grass that never could grow right. Or resting his head on the green table; one tired morning eight hours ago.

Why does this keep happening he wondered?

Attacks. Small assaults that escalated in depth and danger. This personal attack. A bad grade. That attack. When they tried to break him. Make him stare at a tank of fish. In the kindergarten classroom. He knew that the hammer was going to come down for this one. What would she do? He hoped nothing. It was just not fair. He was getting beat up.

They are picking on him every two seconds. Sherman wouldn't stop drawing funny pictures of him. Sherman was making him look stupid. And all that that was was what didn't really matter. Because the only thing he saw was the pudgy butthead with food on his face. There was no teacher around. But he knew the other kids were there. He even knew exactly how each one of those other kids felt exactly about what was going on with him. Here. With the evil one. That monster! His shirt stretched out at the neck from where Curly tried to use it to keep himself standing.

He fell under the lunch table. And his head hit the hard floor of the cafeteria and there wasn't really any sight in his eyes when he was getting to my feet. Only now with his hands over his ears did he understand further than what he felt in spots on his body. In his ribs and in his head when he hit the ground. Physical pain creating emotional pain.

That monster was saying it was Curly who started this. And he went after Curly! He pushed Curly down! He had been in trouble all day! Why doesn't it stop?

Harry was going to call his mother again. This time for sure. He's not going to let Curly off again this time. All he had done that day was mess everything up. They don't even give him a chance!

He doesn't know. Angel called him a monkey fart when Curly poured that juice into his snack. Harry took him out of class. They always say those things in front of the girls too. His teachers all hate him. They don't even want him to be in their class. And Curly hates everyone in this school.

He is sitting down now. These people don't matter. That bald head butthole Harry. Who does he think he is?

Looking over his shoulder there are the girls screaming about what just happened. They're all telling Harry.

Harry thought it was Damien that was fighting. Damien was just trying to get the fat slob Moe off of him.

And the way Harry looked at Curly when he realized he was the kid under the lunch table. He was going to give up on him. Curly knew it. And he didn't care.

Harry doesn't know anything. Shaved head monkey with his stupid white binder. Curly doesn't want to be here anymore. Harry made him walk around all day at his side. And he gave Curly a grade for how well he could sit at the table and stare at the wall. And when he made Curly sit in the kindergarten class he told him he was going to get a grade for how well he could stare at the fish in the fish tank. But there were no fish in the tank. It was just murky green water that had fake plants with things growing on them. And Curly yelled out at the story about the drip, drip dripping water faucet, and Harry gave him a D- because of that. So he didn't care anymore.

Everyone was screaming everywhere. Harry was not going to do nothing. Ms. Stevenson was here handing out the paws. Harry wasn't even around. Curly could see him across the cafeteria at the bus five table; trying to get everyone sitting down like he was always doing.

That lady that was always canceling recess was giving out the puppy paw stickers to the kids sitting down quietly. She put one down in front of him. Curly didn't think she even knew that he was just fighting.

He wished his bus would get there. Harry could call his parents. What did it matter? He just wanted to get out of there.  
* * * * * * * * * * *

It had been a long day. Another one of those miniature eternities Bruno had been dealing with every day for years. Except in the summer. Or when they gave them those weeks off sometimes. Like for Christmas, or in the spring. He could go for one of those for sure. What month was it? February? He had a vacation coming up! Oh, thank goodness.

Bruno was in the gym waiting for his afterschool program to begin. The guttural roar of the heating system above drowned out all the sound, and reverberated in these giant walls of dirty brick. And it rolled across the scuffed and gouged hardwood floors. The vents made all the other children scream over them.

Bruno stood at the front of the gym, just beside the doors, and he looked across at everybody there. If there was anybody that he knew.

His teachers say it must be clinical; the behavioral problems he displays in class. His classmates cannot learn when he is in the room. When he is tearing through the stacks of plastic baskets to see what they hold, and the teacher must interrupt the lesson to discipline him. The other students have trouble remaining engaged for the simple reason that they are engaged no longer. Now the teacher is distracted. Bruno will give his irrelevant arguments for the behavior. But what Bruno does not, and seemingly cannot, understand, is that what he has to say really does not matter.

The reasons for Bruno's disturbances, to himself, are valid. There is a legitimate reason for him to be digging through the background instead of listening to the lesson the teacher is trying to present. Perhaps he wanted to see if there was a piece of paper in there. Because he wanted to write a note to Caleb to tell Caleb to stop making faces at him. And Bruno might even go so far to say that it was out of a desire to not interrupt the class that it seemed appropriate to write a note.

This claim cannot be valid. Because Bruno has been told enough to know that the proper response to Caleb's making faces is to ignore it. And to focus on the teacher. His misbehavior is the manifestation of many factors; social incongruities, a family out of touch, a lack of desire to learn, and a lack of interest in what is taking place in the lesson.  
It is not impossible to gain the attention of this uninvolved child. Like many other kids, he likes dinosaurs and volcanoes. He likes sharks and he likes tornados. And luckily for Bruno; things of this nature are often taught in his school. Or at least sometimes the curriculum is open ended enough for him to gravitate towards them unrestricted.  
Later in life it will be those subjects his recollections of this place crowd around inside of his thoughts. Where he was when he learned that sharks had rows and rows of teeth that replaced themselves as they are torn from the mouth over time. And at the same time he discovered that dolphins have more teeth per mouth than any other creature. As he sat in a corner with some other kids and read the teeth segment of a picture book about sea creatures.

He will not remember that day's math lesson. But overtime he will understand mathematics. As the years drag on into high school Bruno will get satisfactory passing grades in all of his classes.

But he won't remember what he was taught that day. No. What he will remember about today are the tears.

He only wanted to whistle. And he could not do it. But Steven could. And when he tried James made fun of him.

James was always picking on Bruno. Every time he says ANYTHING James makes fun of him. Bruno doesn't know what he says sometimes. But everybody laughs at him. And they think he's weird. James always tells him he's rotting because there is a fungus on his face. And then all the other kids say it.

In a subtle way the people at school don't look at Bruno very often. The teachers or the students. It is also similar inside of the home. He has three brothers and sisters in the house, and his mother and father.

His parent's both work significant hours and come and go constantly. They can only pay so much attention for a great part of the week. Often only spending ten minutes a day with the young ones. The children ages 4, 8 (Bruno), 13 and 17 are more often then not doing the daily tasks home life requires by themselves. The parents give the older ones specific instructions. The older children know how to run the house, how to feed and monitor the children. And which neighbor to go to in case of a crisis.

Bruno really only has his little sister Keisha for company in the home. He used to spend a lot of time with his older sister, Diana. But since she had switched to the other school she was not the same. She was on the internet all afternoon and she was on the phone all night. She did not seem to remember that she even had a brother. And Joabel, the oldest, struggled with his high school obligations and trying to get into college. Joabel has a girlfriend, Christy. And it is only with minimum interest that he spends limited quality time with his younger brother.

Bruno is at a stage in his life when the events and knowledge that once mattered and counted for new and important are fading from prominence through repetition. He is through learning to read and do basic arithmetic. Tying his shoes and not wetting the bed are of the past. Now social interactions are sifting their way to the foreground.  
Friendship is more important to him than ever. And he is learning of a spider web like presence that is all around him. One he must navigate without making contact with it or to suffer the tearing of the adhesive from his skin. The spider web is his peers. The spider itself, for Bruno, is James.

James whom has the power to wind Bruno into the web so tightly it will suffocate him; and James will continue to suck the good parts out until Bruno is released from the school. The web will be there waiting for him the next day. The spider will be waiting to trap his favorite prey.

Bruno, with the fungus growing up his face. Little, rough, tear drop shaped patches of infested white flesh rising along side his nose on his cheek. Stopped just below his eye and by no means contained.

Dejected from his peers and isolated from his family. He spends his evenings with Keisha, watching her shows on the television; doing his homework and playing video games. His brother makes dinner at night and he eats it. There is not any one person, save for Keisha, he talks to about himself.

They took him out of class. And now Harry was telling Bruno he is going to call his mother because he doesn't behave in class. It's not even his fault.

Now he's crying and James is there too. He got taken out of class as well. And tomorrow he is going to make fun of him for crying. Because school is over that day anyway. The after school buses are already there. Curly is in trouble and he is here too but Bruno doesn't know why.

And Harry is telling him that crying is not going to do any good. But he doesn't know what else to do. Bruno doesn't want him to call his mommy. He doesn't want her to yell at him. Mr. Farmer wasn't being fair.

This was not fair. It was not fair. I don't deserve this. It was not fair.

They're going to make fun of me. It's not fair.  
* * * * * * * * * * *

When I spin in circles everything changes and gets wobbly. I cannot see straight and sometimes it makes me fall down. I like the way it feels. I do it a lot. I like to watch because everything gets blurry and swirls around my head. And it's like I can't tell one part of the room from another.

I am in the gym and there is so much space in here. Sometimes I run into a teacher and they make me sit down. But I like spinning a lot. My backpack and my jacket come off my shoulders but I keep them on my arms and it feels like they are pulling me in the circles.

"Pedro! Go sit down on the line," said the man with the shaved head. We call him baldy sometimes. I sit down like he told me.

All the other kids are in here too. But not all of them are in my afterschool program. My program sits on this line over here. And another group is on the line over there. And there is another group at the back. Geoff is here and he's pulling on my backpack. Ha ha. He's pulling me across the floor and I'm trying to kick his hands away from the straps.  
"You, you, you, and you! Look at me right now! I want all of you sitting next to each other on the line right here!" Baldy said. And we all got next to each other and sat quiet until he was happy and he walked away.

And then he wasn't looking at us anymore and Geoff tried to take my backpack again. I held onto it and he stood up and was pulling me with it more. Geoff is my friend. This is very fun. But when I look over Baldy is coming back again. Uh-oh.

"You four," he waved his finger around me, Geoff, Bruno, and Henry, "get back on the line!" He yelled and his eyes half closed and his nose scrunched up. "If you just sit on this line and behave until it's time to go to snack, when we get there, I will give you a surprise. Ok?"

"What surprise?" Bruno asked him.

"It's a surprise. Just behave until snack. Alright?"

"Ok!" we all said.

"What do you think it is?" Henry asked.

I bet its tokens." Said Geoff.

Everybody in our program got up and stood in line with their afterschool teacher. I start spinning in circles and I fall down again.

Baldy came back and said, "Pedro! Catch up with everyone else. You're getting left behind."

I stop spinning and walk to the back of my group's line. I was smiling. Spinning in circles is my favorite thing.

Baldy kept telling me to stay with the group. I was close to them. I want to spin in a circle more.

We are in the cafeteria now and I sit down for snack. And Baldy hands me an orange juice, a bag of teddy bear crackers, and an apple.

Everybody wanted an apple juice when he was handing them out. He gave them orange and they wanted apple. They were all saying, "I want apple juice. I want apple juice."

When he finished giving everybody snack, Bruno asked him what our surprise was and he smiled real big and gave us two thumbs up and he said, "Surprise!" Bruno said, "No! Give us a real surprise!"

Baldy said, "No," and walked away.

Curly poured his juice into Angel's bag of crackers. And when Baldy came to yell at him, I asked him for another snack and he told me no and kept talking to Curly.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Is this really what I was like when I was their age? I never knew what they meant when they said that being disruptive in class is making it harder for the other kids to learn; until I watched them; Curly, Bruno, Pedro, and all the rest. Then I got a new perspective.

The kids are so active. They throw things and wrestle constantly. They are always chasing each other. And you can just imagine them acting like this in a jungle. But we aren't in a jungle. We are in an elementary school. And they could slip and split their skull open. And that is what your mind's eye sees after the initial image of that jungle.  
Blood everywhere and a child clutching his face as another staff helps him off to the nurse's office. And then they will question me. "Why weren't you controlling these kids?" they'll ask. Control? No one could possibly realistically expect me to have control over them. There is too many of them and too few of us.

I was a bad kid at their age. And in my adolescence I must have been straight out of my teacher's nightmares. Still, I never gave it any thought until I found myself here. Working with kids is more or less what I do for a living.

I never went to school for it. I just started working with people who have mental disabilities a couple years ago and my career evolved into this.

Curly can barely be in his afterschool classroom. His teacher can't teach the class when he's in there. I do my best to be a caring and involved individual. But I kept Curly out of his class because his teacher wanted me to. I didn't think it was the right thing to do, but she's pretty hot. So I did.

And I have never respected any ones authority over me. How can I expect them to respect mine? For the most part they don't.

The other ladies at the school can control them sometimes. The principle is young and clearly having an affair with this other woman. He gets to use a whistle. I bet without that whistle he's not much better than me. And it's easy for these older women. They look like anyone's mother. The connection is there; just barely under the surface.

But then there is me. I still talk like a child does. I am only 21 and a half. I don't want to be mean to kids. Mostly I just want to talk to them about movies and toys and things like that. But my job calls for me to control them.

We bribe them. As it is they don't even have to come to the program I run. So we have to bribe them to attend. We use toys and a token system of earning. But they always want more. They just want so much.

They expect to be rewarded for adhering to our simplest of commands.

And it isn't their fault. They are only kids. I don't know why I would expect them to understand. But we are trying to teach them. To raise the standardized test scores. We need time to do that. As an afterschool program, our time is limited to begin with. And the better they behave and follow our commands (by ours I mean mine), the better I can organize them, and the quicker I can get my five teachers with their classes to their borrowed rooms, and the more time they can have for our lesson. It is all very chaotic. My teachers help, but most are no better at this than me. Either they are just out of college, or have never worked with kids, or they're still in college. Either way, it is my job to control the kids out of the classrooms. And to handle the misbehaviors that happen within the classrooms. Also, since what I do is after all administrative work. I have got a lot of paperwork flying around.

I have to make sure the teachers have adequate supplies. I have to make sure the teachers have all of their kids in their class. I have to call parents. And I don't think anyone in this business is fond of that task. When a student falls behind I have to give them assessments. I am in charge of filling orders for the toys they have earned with their tokens. I have to keep our supplies organized. I have to keep my superiors informed. Everything needs to be organized and accounted for in our closet space. Plus there is more.

It would all be very possible if I didn't have to deal with the kids. Or I could deal with them fine if I wasn't juggling my other tasks.

I have been managing; I lie to them. I ignore them when they cry, even though I know they need me to say something reassuring. I make poor decisions when my mind is elsewhere.

My bosses tell me I am doing a good job and I never believe them.

I am forever waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the kid to disappear and I gave them to an assumed parent without having them sign out because I was busy. And the kid ends up dead and raped in a gutter. I wait for the injuries. I wait for the school staff to pay a little too much attention and notice I swear around the kids.

I know that if anyone can do this stuff it is me. But I don't want to. Those kids break me down everyday I go to work. I expect it and they know it.

There is a force that tugs at your pride when a child is making you question your future. When they are the ones putting you in your place. They can overwhelm you. They do it all the time. And I try to hide my struggle from them. They can see it in my eyes. If I look away; they can feel the nervous vibrations that emanate from me. They feed on it. It makes them stronger. And that demands more from me.

It calls for anger. You need to scare them with a loud voice, a scowl, and a threat.

There is a lot going on in the realm young children. I am sure parents know about it. And people who work in the field must know it. But until I was submerged in them I never realized what their lives are really like.

They are tiny humans. They have tiny human problems. We ignore the things that are important to them because those things are not important to us. But they have tiny lives inside of their school. They have crushes, and bullies, and friends, and they want to play. It is their nature to run free like any young beast.

It is the nature of education to go against the grain when raising children. This may be why homeschooling is as good of an option. One way or another these youth will grow up. Whether homeschooled and socially oppressed, or grinded through the public education system and socially uniform or outcast and obscure.

They are learning, but they are also being deeply affected by their environment. Maybe if this school wasn't so crowded, the quality of education would be of a higher standard.

And since that is not the case, and there is overcrowding, the problems in the tiny lives of these kids are going unnoticed and unresolved. The parents will not know the full extent of a child's problems.

Perhaps parents are used to their kids. They only see what they already know. They do not know if ones attention craving is the reason he is getting in trouble, or if another is acting out because of a poorly set example. That is just how Bruno is, or how Curly is.

And so be it. Who am I to save the world? I can hardly save my own program. I just hope these kids get something more out of life than I, or we, have to offer them.

Maybe I want to help them. And maybe I don't care about them at all.

But I remember crying in school. And I remember being taken from the class, though I never knew why. I remember being picked on. Never fitting in. I remember the feeling of being forced into a meat grinder. I remember that pain. And I don't think I would ever wish it upon another living soul. Definitely never upon a child.

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Living without your love is;/ To live without oxygen;/ To live without water;/ Without food

Living without your love is;/ To drown perpetually;/ An unquenchable thirst;/ A raging hunger/ Living without your love is;/ Like a sinking sailor;/ The desert to a lost man;/ Eating my own sanity/ As my ship goes down/ I see your face in the sky/ Shriveling/ Under the sun/ You are the vultures

Your love is a basic need/ No different than hunger

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A Frosty Window

The brief reflection of how unrested and tired I am. As a colossal organization with the goal of supporting individuals with disabilities, what, prêt ell, is in it for you? Is it possible all of this is for them? Is human resources here to help the wheel go around or is it just a job? Given the same job with another company that did not have these "core values" of integrity, collaborative relationships, financial responsibility, and excellence, but it was privilege to a higher salary; is the mission and vision enough to make somebody stay with this company? Probably not. I wonder. Would I care if I could get a better job; stocking shelves maybe? The joke being I've been rejected by the toy store due to the DUI and accepted here. I hate myself. ALL is ONE. I hate everything. When people love themselves, maybe they love everything? The dark sea of awareness feels all of our feelings for us. We all have our purpose but this makes me feel used. This orientation is worse than being beaten half to death. I would literally, seriously, and longingly rather have the shit kicked out of me each of these three days. More than once a day if necessary. I work overnights to avoid situations like this. Flaming Christians are creatures of light. They illuminate the room with positive, however unappealing, energy. I find this quality very ugly. Women in red, however, are mind-bendingly attractive. Voracious synchronicity. Any kind of synchronicity really. I still pray for mass death when I look out over a city. Earth deserves our absence at this point. I suppose there will be a time for that. When death is mine I hope I go to the aliens. The aliens are our only hope now. Look at what the Earth project has come to. X= the eyes of some guy or a girl looking at me from across the world while in this room and I presume everyone knows how things go inside this head soaked in dread at the sight of others when there is no cover completely exposed and X it goes. Y = why; the eternal don't know nearing it's end everyday yet always seeming to slip away further and further into the fray. Maybe the aliens will tell me what's up. When will the aliens rescue us? 2012 or bust. My heart pumps once for hypothetical loves. My positive ascension into the light seems to depend on my accepting monogamy as what is best for me. At least it is what is best for my karma. I belong to every beautiful woman who wants to touch me. Like I belong to every drug in front of me. There are three in this room. Social constraints are chains metaphysically more so than metaphorically. Chains wrapped so tight it gets hard to breath. Always hard to breathe. This from an asthmatic smoker.

Beyond the window there's a world I watch shatter/ Up here in my chair I can hardly care/ In my heart I know this is my fault/ I can hear that soft death cry/ One after another they continue on forever/ To smile and love again never/ I watch them run about without a single hope/ I am here with nothing to fear/ An understanding grips me and I grip the steel/ The shard penetrates my wrist/ I always knew it would come this/ Hiding away inside while we all die

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Gray sky above/ Through the rain on my windshield/ Sitting in a cold cab/ Trying to save gas/ Sick body rejecting poison/ Guitars tearing a mind apart/ The way I like it/ Stone's throw from death/ Nibble a banana to stay alive/ The way I like it/ Homeless and I want a girl/ But I've got nothing to offer/ The way I like it

I don't fit in/ Not in this world/ Not in my head/ Not with a girl/ I won't fit in/ Until I leave this world/ I won't fit in/ Until I am the only one/ Breathing fire from the sun/ Until I am the only one/ With a loaded gun/ I am the only one/ In my disturbing delusion

666

The natural world calms/ Like a beloved's touch/ Stroking my memory/ From her place in history/ I acknowledge reality/ The nomadic fucking here and now/ A man on my own

No one to love you/ No one to fuck you/ No one to come home to/ No home to go home to/ All you have is you/ And the natural world calms

But the geese have each other/ And you have no lover/ So you shudder/ In your truck for cover/ The pouring rain smothers/ And you've got no lover/ And now you're un-calm

A zero hour time bomb/ Every word you write/ Makes you worse off/ It doesn't fucking help/ All you can do is/ Put yourself back on the shelf/ And fucking sell yourself/ But it won't fucking help

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You are not much to me anymore/ Just a karmic slap in the face/ A hundred broken hearts attacking/ Smothering me, overwhelming me/ I can't get up let alone breathe/ You may be killing me/ But you are no longer part of me

It's all over/ Our moment in time/ It's all over/ And you're stuck in my mind

So it won't be long now/ Until I drink away this sorrow/ Shut off my mind/ A swig or a shot at a time

You make me drink

I drink my thoughts away/ A swig or a shot at a time

Every time I talk to you/ I die a little inside/ You make me want to hurt you/ And you make me want to die

Today there wasn't a cloud in sight/ And even though the sun shined bright/ You made me want to kill myself/ And everyone around me

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I love YOU so much/ and YOU pushed me away/ I Loved YOU so much/ and I still feel that today

From the first moment I saw you/ And the first words you said to me/ I knew I loved you/ And that I always would

Our love was electric/ Like all those summer storms/ With torrential intensity/ And earth shattering passion

Now you've outgrown me/ And you live so far away/ Now we never speak/ but I think about you/ CONSTANTLY!

YOUR life is what YOU'VE made it/ and I KNOW how much YOU'VE changed/ If YOU came back to me/ I'd LOVE YOU just the same

I miss you like the womb/ I love you more than life/ Without you I die/ Without me you thrive

NOW I LIVE IN A SEWER/ AND I HANDLE DANGEROUS BIOHAZARDS/ DEPRESSION IS EATING ME/ ITS EATING ME ALIVE/ all because I've lost you

YOU were my everything/ WITHOUT YOU I have nothing/ CONSIDER MY SOUL REDLINING/ I DIED THE DAY I LOST YOU

I miss you like the womb/ I love you more than life/ Without you I die/ Without me you thrive

Fuck being without you/ So fuck you/ Fuck being without you!/ So fuck you!/ FUCK being without you!/ So FUCK YOU!/ FUCK being without YOU!/ SO FUCK YOU!/ FUCK BEING WITHOUT YOU!!!!/ FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Ugliness in the Mirror

What kind of wind carries you away from within? I know of no updraft that effects spirit. And yet, through my shut out window, I can hear it. From the floor beneath my feet behind me something uncertain is moving through me. This wind is irrelevant as it could simply be anxiety. I saw 400 drunk drivers in a single room today. And a crazy red haired lady who was very much concerned with seeing an end put to drunk driving. That is all well and good. I on the other hand don't care one way or the other about anyone's dead loved ones. I was more concerned with a room full of 400 people who had been arrested when only about 50 of them were criminals. Laws create criminals and not much else. They are patch work for bigger problems. STOP ARRESTING PEOPLE FOR DUI! Arrests ruin lives too. Not many people in that room had hurt anybody. A few maybe. Fine, it matters! Whatever! Drinking and driving is fucked up! Whatever! STOP ARRESTING PEOPLE FOR DUI! Figure something else out. Laws create criminals. No one cares about a criminal's feelings. USA has more people in jail than any other country in the world. How can we call this the land of the free? Jail is inhumane. It is the result of gross negligence on part of our society and the means to create the products (children) of the environment of that society. This is why I drink whisky, MADD. One reason. I've always been an alcoholic but I didn't need to be arrested over and over for it. If for no other reason than getting arrested makes me want to drink more. Exponentially until the next time. And then exponentially again. It's a snifter of bourbon and 2 rolls of the dice to make 6,6,6,1,3. A snifter of bourbon and 5 rolls of the dice to make 6,6,6,1,3. A snifter of bourbon and 13 rolls of the dice to make 6,6,6,1,3. Driving a standard in traffic sucks. Period. ...Period...Period... Girls get periods. But not when they're pregnant and tomorrow WE KILL THE CHILD. You'll be next if you don't get MADD on your side. We're coming for your uterus. We are coming for your woman's uterus. Your body is my business. Your woman's body is my business. EVERYBODY SING. NOW! Ignore EvErYthING aaaaaannnnnndddddd PEEL ORaNges... SING IT! CRIPPLE YOUR NEIGHBOR! YES I AM AWARE OF THE SOAPBOX. Drink more. Drive more. Kill more. Suffer more. This is what living's for. Everything eats another. Energy comes and goes in many many ways. Not many are %100 preventable. So damage that statistic spoke the god damned mystic.

Trees have an effect/ So many/ And you/ In the middle/ So few/ They tell you/ What to think/ What to do/ Creating mystery/ And uncertainty/ The brooks/ And rivers/ Create anxiety shivers/ Everything gets at you/ Constantly/ Because of the trees/ You cannot get out/ Every road leads/ To more trees/ And people/ Like a disease/ Debilitate good living/ By not living free/ We're all trapped/ Inside the trees/ We all eat away/ At one another's/ Environment/ The only escape/ Is open space

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Cages made of trees/ Bars made of bark/ Craggy cliffs/ And the streams/ Streams like hallucinations/ Flowing, bubbling, forever moving/ Motion that flows away/ Away into eternity and far/ Far away from reality/ Bubbly brook and flowing streams. Rushing rivers and raging rapids/ To escape the cages I become a bubble/ A bubble bubbling in a bubbly brook/ And I flow downstream/ Until I reach the rushing river/ In the rushing river I reflect/ Upon the futility of reality/ And I rage amongst the rapids/ Amongst the rapids I rage/ I rage against my rushing river/ I revolt against my rushing river/ The river roars like a riot/ I'm fighting all the rocks/ Fighting against the currant/ I pop/ I am the water/ I look to the sun to save me/ I evaporate/ And rise to the heavens/

Life stops

I am a man/ A living human being/ I fall from the sky/ And land in the prairie/ I adjust to my new reality/ Taking their societies advice I find work/ And fall in love with a girl/ Bliss bliss bliss bliss bliss/ Until she dumps me/ And I die

I went to South Dakota and died

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The Shooter

The silencer I hold in my hand is the most beautiful thing I have seen in my entire life. Nothing has been as significant as this since I was created of my parents loins. With this; something good becomes great. Something pretty has become beautiful. Something common has become a masterpiece. And I could not be happier. This really means everything to me.

That cousin of mine. I couldn't do it without him. I wonder if he knows how many lives would have been spared if I hadn't acquired this.

He wouldn't want to have contributed. I know that. Who would, really? Except for me of course. But that's ok. Because this is my opinion. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, right?

As far as I can tell; the myth that human life has some kind of value is just an opinion. Like blacks were subhuman during slavery. That was an opinion. It was the opinion of the Nazi's that the Jews needed to be stopped.

Not that I agree with slave drivers and Nazis.

When they used to tear down the forests in the Pacific Northwest and send all the wood down the river. Were those slaved rivers?

No. I don't agree with the actions of terrible people. But I don't morn over them either. I agree with history. Bad shit happens. It always has and it always will. Hell, it took me a long time to realize that my options are so limited in their scope that I won't ever be able to do anything as significant as Adolph Hitler. He had an army. Maybe if I were skilled enough to create an army, and it was the right place at the right time, as it was for him, maybe I could earn that kind of distinction. That is not my place though.

I am an American. And Americans like me do this kind of thing all the time. We hear about it on the news. The breaking coverage. The testimonials. The brief look into the mind of a psychopath you read after you've checked your email. The funeral services.

Mostly I want to do it only to do it better than the others. It can't be that hard to take more than five strangers lives. It's always five. Or nine. Or eleven. That doesn't seem like it's enough. I want the kind of body count they build giant stone memorials for.

At least twenty. I like fifty. But I have got to be realistic. In the end it is not going to matter exactly how many people died. I'm not going to be around for that part anyway. I can pretend it was thousands.

My worry is that something will go wrong. An alarm I didn't know about goes off and the police come ahead of time. I can see myself standing there watching them roll down the street toward me with the sirens blazing. And I should be dropping more bodies; instead I'm just so pissed off that they got there ahead of time. I'll kind of freeze up before I shoot it out with them. And five people are dead and I'm another shmuck.

I hope not.

This is what life held for me. For 26 years I have not done a damn thing other than work in that restaurant; got fucked up all the time and partied. Had a few drug problems. Got laid a bunch.

This is me wanting something more. Maybe I could have gone to college and been a scientist and cured some disease. How many people kill strangers? How many cure a disease? The numbers have got to be close for either individual.

I would have really liked to cure a disease. Save all those lives and be a hero. That didn't happen. Instead I will take as many and be a monster. As long as I am remembered as something when I die.

There is nothing left for me. I have no ambition. I hate my girlfriend. I hate my job. I don't see any of those things changing. And even if I knew they one day would; I do not really feel like sticking around for it.

No. I'm out; cashing in my chips. Saying goodbye to what is known to embrace that that is unknown.

Those police will throw me a great going away bash, with all kinds of lights and sounds and the world will know that I, Jefferson McAllister, have departed on my definitive journey. That I, Jefferson McAllister, like their friends and family that knew me moments before their demise, am meeting my maker. I will stand at the gates of hell and yell. I will disappear into an infinite nothing with a smile. I will cross the river Styx and leap in for a swim. I will be in the constellations with the Twins and the Romans and the Greeks and the aliens.

Getting my things together now. I'm going tomorrow at noon, St. Valentine's Day. I didn't plan that, it just happened. But I am not so blind to miss the opportunity there and I have something special, a tribute, in mind as such.

Not much of a present for my girlfriend, but she'll get over it.

I've got all my supplies laid out on the kitchen table; trying to figure out if I'm forgetting anything. There is my machine gun, an AK-47. I got that from a Puerto Rican. In all the movies I've seen, AK's cut through their victims more explosively than anything else. That's why I chose it over the M-16 he was selling. I have the pistol I am licensed to own and permitted to carry. The drum. That amazing drum. 75 AK rounds. Chrome M1911 with the black textured handle. And the black silencer I just finished polishing. A bullet proof vest I got years ago. When tomorrow was just a twinkle in my eye and a skip in my step to the police depot on rte. 6 west. I don't think I ever thought I would really be doing it.

The black cargo pants that will serve as my utility belt. A utility belt which I need in order to carry: my squeezy bottle of kerosene, my Gemini bic lighter, my flick open hunting knife, my little clip on taser (which I cannot imagine needing), my cigarettes, the extra magazines, and just in case, my cell phone. I bought a black mechanics jacket just for this. It fits great too.

Not that it matters. They don't put psychopaths on the cover of catholic school girl monthly. Whatever. I figure I'll were my black high top sneakers, with the white laces. Having never been one for steel toe boots, which would be so appropriate. I guess I'd rather have comfortable feet.

Lighting a cigarette I go over to my ugly green fridge and get a beer. Of all the things I may miss, I cannot for the life of me imagine beer and cigarettes being one of them. I sit down at my little aluminum table in the green plastic chairs. The dirt from my shoes creates an irritating distance between my feet and the tile floor. All this in my grandparent's house.

They're dead. I just live here. They really never changed anything since the late fifties. Even when they replaced things, they went to antique shops and flea markets to find similar crap. It was their whole thing. Very Valentines Day. It reminded them of when they got the house after they got married.

That would remind me of being stagnant for the better part of my existence. But they were sweet people. I miss them to the degree one misses someone that they think would be nice to have around sometimes but isn't really that put off by the awareness that it cannot happen. I don't miss them very much, I guess. If there is an afterlife, and I see them when I go; they are not going to be happy about this one. Actually, I don't think they'd talk to me. Who would? I think I'd be one lonely son of a bitch in a place like that. Luckily, the chances of that happening are about the same as Santa Claus coming to the rescue of all those people tomorrow.

They're probably sleeping right now; my victims. It's a funny thing. I don't know them; I just know something about them. Something incredibly important that they would give their lives to know. At least they could warn others if they _had_ to die.

It's late. About midnight. I'm going to go pay a visit to my girlfriend and pretend as though nothing is wrong. I'm drunk, and maybe that's a good thing. Perhaps I'll get pinched for a DUI. Save all those lives. Such a tragedy so nearly averted. Maybe they will get lucky; my victims.

Not to say I wouldn't do it another day. But that would mean new victims. These ones are set in a stone of destiny.

I put my shoes on, grab my keys, and get out of the house. Open up the doors on my Japanese compact car, get in, and start the thing. I used to have a Monte Carlo SS. It was bitchen. The car brought thunder with us wherever we went. And now this. But thunder is what I have my rifle for. The thunder. Electrically charged air creating bolts of lightning. That lightning makes a connection from the heavens to the earth. Resulting in a shockwave; an explosion of sound ringing out for miles and miles, so that even those at a safe distance know there is something dangerous on the horizon.

There will be rain tomorrow. That's pretty sweet. I love the rain. Watching it in the street lights. The drops falling from the heavens and the drips coming off the steel fixtures; heavy, bigger, falling slower. The tiny insignificant poking sensations happening all over your clothes. And your skin, if you're lucky enough to be in short sleeves.

I drive from the East Side through Providence. All the easy little roads I know so well. The shops and the three skyscrapers. The second to last time, I'll ever do this. I'm taking the highway out to the plaza tomorrow. Kelly's apartment is on Federal Hill. The Italian neighborhood. Atwells Ave. has the Italian colors- red, green, and white- running up the street instead of the usual yellow lines. I always wonder what the passing laws would be. Probably the penalty of a mobster beat down.

I get to her place on Federal St. It's a little old house, kind of like mine. Except redone with nice carpets, countertops and appliances. Her furniture is nice, and she keeps it clean. She's the only one who lives here. This is the last time I'll walk up her steps. I feel as though I am supposed to care. The temptation to get nostalgic about all these little lasts is nagging me. What the fuck? Nothing is going to stop me. Especially petty sentiments.

I knock and she is wearing her little crimson satin nighty when she opens the door. She does it in a hurry and skips off to the kitchen without even acknowledging me.

"I'm making brownies," she said standing in the doorway to the kitchen and licking a fudgy spoon.

"You're hair!" she exclaimed, putting the spoon down and rushing to me. Reaching her little hands over me to feel my skull. I used to have some long greasy dirty blond hair. All that has been buzzed off. I've got an eighth of inch of stubble up there now.

"I cut it off. Like it?"

"Why would you do that?"

"I had written 'Be Impulsive' on my calendar for today."

"You could have bought a dog," she was looking at my head.

"Do you like it?"

"Not at all."

She looked good tonight. I had been thinking about the sex for a couples days. We hadn't been able to see each other because of conflicting schedules. All that sexual energy was building up and she was a sight for sore eyes. Her ass cheeks were peeking out from under the fabric hem. What a perfect ass on this one. The kind of ass you imagine yourself cupping and squeezing and you wake up with a hard on at four in the morning.

She's putting brownie batter in the oven. I wonder if I should wait until the brownies come out before I fuck her on the couch. Brownies take thirty minutes. I don't believe this will take that long.

I watch that soft black hair of hers dance on her shoulders as she walks over to me. There is a look in her eyes. She is thinking the same thing I am. I can see her perfect nipples under the red lace covering her round breasts.

Wrapping my arms around her, she tilts her head up for me to kiss her. I do. A lot. I reach down and squeeze her ass in my hand. I get hard immediately and press myself into her. She pulls herself into me.

We move over to the white sofa. We lie down enveloped in each other. With one hand around her, I take my shoes off with the other. She undoes my belt buckle.

. . . . . . .

I had sex with her a couple more times. We eat the brownies with milk and talk of simple things. The years have taught me to keep my thoughts away from my facial expressions. Once upon a time she may have guessed even what I was up to. Not anymore. Things change. Or at least they used to change.

I told her she would get her Valentine's Day gift delivered to her at the hospital where she works. I crossed that subtle threshold between sex and making love and made love to her one last time. After that I get dressed in a rush. Kiss her deeply about six times and get in my car and I get the fuck out of there.

This is way too personal to get her involved. God, even seeing her for that little while. I start asking too many questions. Feeling too many feelings. I had figured this was going to happen. That thought was in passing. Remembering it now, I wish I had put a little more thought into the subject and how to handle it.

I get home at 3:11. I am really tired right now. Strange. I would expect to be too excited too sleep. Like on certain holidays. Not the case. This shit's been taxing me. Too many hours; between me and them. I have to kill them. Waiting is like staring at a ticking time bomb mixed with watching water boil. I know it and apparently my body knows it. This can't go on much longer. I'm feeling drowsy. I go to my plain old bedroom. It's got a couple tapestries and a calendar. I write an X over today. My crap is scattered over the surfaces. All my clothes are on the floor; except my things lay out for tomorrow.

I grab a black t-shirt and put it on the table with the guns. I strip naked and put on pajama pants, fill a glass with water, and take gulps from it. I fill it up again and place it on the night stand next to my bed. Then I go around and turn off the lights and lock the door.

Lying down; the covers are not warm yet. They will be. I am going to fall asleep any second now.

How sublime.

The sun is not flooding my bedroom like it usually does when I wake up. My ears tune into the sound of water flowing all over the outside of the house. Those little dribbling noises that take on the form of water itself.

I throw my arm down to the floor to pick up the clock and look at it. The little red digital numbers read 10:52. That's a couple hours later than ideal. I was up late last night. I should have counted on this. Whatever though. It's not like there is an exact science to these things. I light a cigarette and pull up the shades to look out at the dark sky over my soaking wet back yard. Rain drips from underneath the Webster grill.

The last hot shower I'll ever take. The last time I'll rub some bar of soap in my armpits. The last time I'll brush my teeth. Hah! I let the foaming suds accumulate in my mouth until they are flowing out and falling to the shower floor.

There is a window in my shower and I look out at the street distorted by the semi-frosted glass. A man walks his dog. I don't know that guy. He'll know me soon enough. Will he know that he walked his dog past my house this mourning?

Valentine's Day, the girl on 95.5 is hyping it up. Call us up with your strangest Valentine's Day stories. In regards to relationships. Damn! I'd have a good one. I'd call her up and pretend to be an old man. I was standing outside that garage in Chicago that morning all those years ago. I saw the gangsters dressed as police as they were leaving the scene. I never talked to no one about it or told anybody I was there even. I am so old now. There isn't much time left and I had to tell somebody.

Or anything like that.

I dry myself off and put on my black pants and my t-shirt. Socks and shoes; sitting down on my bed. It would be nice to have an appetite. Make a nice last meal. But I'm not hungry and I never understood why anyone ever gave a shit about last meals anyway. Why not a last jerk off? Or a last shot of whiskey. Anything. Fuck food. I'll have an apple and then I'm getting out of here. No reason to put this off any longer. I'd been waiting for my cousin to get the silencer for about a month. How many times had I almost gone without it?

The spare AK clip sticks far out of my cargo pockets so instead I bound it to my calf with masking tape. Kind of a stupid idea. It wouldn't be that hard to stop and buy a backpack. I don't care though. The comfort of the tape less obscure than I had assumed it would be at first.

Anyway, all my money is in an envelope for Kelly. That's about the only thing in there. A note that says, "Give Kelly anything of mine that she wants." And I sign it.

My apple is finished and I am all done looking around to see if I have forgotten anything important. Surely that is the case. But fuck it. Organization was never my riff.

The .45 is resting in its shoulder holster over my flack jacket. Over that I've got my coat on. All my little things are crammed into my pockets. The only thing I've got to carry is the AK. But I won't need that until my cover has long been blown.

Kelly's envelope is on the kitchen table. Nothing else. This is it. Throw the rifle over my shoulder and I'm out of here.

"Bye Grandma. Bye Grandpa."

I really want to burn the house down. But I don't know if there is anything that Kelly might want. That's the only reason though. It really would have been nice.

Grenades would have been nice, too. Or even pipe bombs. Fuck. A Molotov cocktail. Well. Those are cumbersome. But, I want this to be explosive. I'm sure it'll all be just fine. Let the ghosts speak for themselves.

I roll out on my way to ground zero. In my car, there on the gray bucket seat the rifle is sitting up and propped against the window.

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Death stalks Halloween/ A black cat crosses/ Down on Main Street/ Leaving Death with a smile

Children wander excited as can be/ Ghosts, witches, and devils/ All the evil necessities/ Death is left with a smile

Death walks the street among the children/ He could be seen if anyone were looking/ The wind is always at his back/ And Death's presence is ignored

Death stands in the middle of the road/ Cars pass by slowly, cautiously/ Watching the children/ Caring always for the children

Death is not the only thing/ Watching the children this night/ In a van spray painted white/A man with a poison and a plan

The littlest witch's brother turns his back/ The man calls her over and offers a snack/ He helps her into his hell on wheels/ And Death gets in after; what did Death feel?

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Something Alien

Is the crack of dawn accurate? The expression I mean. Daybreak? Seems more like an emergence than any sort of fracture. I will be amazed if anyone ever considers that profound. I don't. I predicted the strangers wearing of a vest, but am unsure how. The twin cities, like most cities, are dredges. Uninformed, misinformed, ill-informed; this is our uniform. Mysterious mystery in the mist. Why, oh, why, do I exist? Existential potential; torrential rain is all encompassing. The rain can wash away this pain. Outer layers of pain can be rinsed away. Superficial pain is a weak fungus. Conversation is an infection. It gets inside. An injection; only possibly an infection. Smiles everywhere. I loathe looking at a smile. There is nothing to smile about usually. All these smiles are ignorance festering. Ignorance is bliss. Knowing burns. Very rarely do I smile. Only when it's necessary. So I frown everyday they throw these smiles around. Then I eat an orange. Sunlight in a substance. Is light a substance? Is light the only substance? Should I be telling you, because I have no idea? My guess is yes. Sunlight in a fruit makes me happy. At least as much as any fruit could. Then I frown again. The world is mysterious and I should not preach. Nor should you. Nothing is certain. Maybe. It is amazing how often I cannot tell if a new co-worker is really a client with disabilities. Some. Just some. What is left to believe in? Aliens and ghosts. How strange that these were the most important things to my child's mind and subsequently the first to be disbelieved. For a while I thought this was all there was. Castaneda showed me there is more than meets the eye. Then I learned he may have been lying. Or feigning truth. Castaneda's lies were the truest I'd ever heard. Drugs helped me forget about it for a while and when I came to I was stupid enough to consider for only a moment that the Christians might be right. That moment was gone a moment later. Eventually my brain cells grew back and I wrote away my wonders. Too busy living to ask any questions. I wrote down my experiences like a broken mirror. Impending doom. When it comes down to it, only the people at the top of the pyramid deserve to die. The value of human life is the assumption that everybody wants to be alive as much as you do (aliens reading bear with me). Supposedly no one deserves to die. This, in combination with war, shows that life is not fair. Life would be nicer if I were a chipmunk. Or a finch. Or a lion. Or a dolphin. Or a stalagmite. Or a stalactite. If consciousness were only a vibration. In retrospect, not having been born would have been choice. Deaf children are adorable. They can make you happy like other children can. But I feel very sad for them. And I think they cry louder than other children. Last night I spent some time with a deaf toddler. I taught him the "word" for stars in sign language; using the Gothic Vampire Tarot Star card for assistance. He did it once; pointing up with stabbing motions of his fingers. Doubtful he'll remember. Care. Welfare. Safety. Security. Love and hate. Hustle. Bounty. Bureaucracy. Afraid or not. Looking. Contracts. Fuck contracts. There is a beautiful girl across the room and I do not know her, but I do know through the company website that it is her birthday. She is a Sagittarius and we are not compatible anyhow. Also, I have a girlfriend; Rachelle. Rash. Embarrass. I should have sat against the wall. I should write a truly never ending story. Probably wouldn't be too difficult. Effective fiction is seldom linear. This is reason I love fiction. And chaos theory for that matter. This room is not easy to eavesdrop in. How do they know when I am listening? For some reason I feel my eyes are betraying my intentions. What else is new? While I have not taken a vow of silence, I will not partake in small talk. The conversations that take place between strangers are the lowest form of conversation. Lower than remember when. This may depend on the strangers in question. Looking forward to the rum the most. Slowly it becomes my life's ambition to drink myself into oblivion. These words are my nervousness. So aware of how you communicate with people. Do you have any idea how they are communicating with you? Endless nothing. What do you think happens when you die? I am going to start asking everybody that. Poke a hole in infinity. Poke two or more. We are infinite. Pierce your skin. Two times or more. I can see mankind's ugliness in the reflection of a television. Imagine if it were turned on... To be a jellyfish. Stars are not rain. If only. Smooth and dark rum is the only reason I work. Not really. There are many reasons. All equally pointless. Negativity seethes from me. Do I long to be a positive creature? They tell me mixed things. They will tell you mixed things. Homogenize the facts.

Not an irregular ode/ Tribute to the evolution of man/ We were given this/ Such a beautiful gift/ What we did was destroy this/ Such a beautiful world

We raped our mother/ We're all motherfuckers/ All this creation/ Came at the price/ Of destruction

Deforestation/ Toxic waste pollution/ A worldwide absence/ Of decent quality life

Kill all the pretty animals/ Do it do it do it/ Kill off the peaceful animals/ What are you waiting for?/ Kill all the innocent animals/ KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL

Kill off your fellow man/ Keep overpopulating/ The greater the population/ Is/ The greater the destruction/ And/ The greater the pollution/ Quicker we spiral away/ Falling so fast/ Into the ground/ Into the ground/ Falling so fast/ Isn't ignorance a blast?/ Falling so fast/ Our masters/ Don't give a rat's ass

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35 and Nine

...As far as I can tell; the myth that human life has some kind of value is just an opinion...

...I won't ever be able to do anything significant...

... Americans like me do this kind of thing all the time. We hear about it on the news. The breaking coverage. The testimonials. The brief look into the mind of a psychopath that you read after you've checked your email...

... Maybe I could have gone to college and been a scientist and cured some disease.

.... As long as I am remembered as something when I die...

...They're probably sleeping right now; my victims. It's a funny thing. I don't know them. But I know something about them. Something incredibly important that they would give their lives to know. At least they could warn others if they _had_ to die...

My last songs. This is what it is all about for me. I chose the Union Underground and how nice that my speakers can make my ears bleed the way they do.

Shrieking guitars and those eerie lyrics. What if I was your god? Yeah. South Texas death ride. Sounds almost right. South New England death ride?

I light my cigarette as I get onto the highway from the side streets. I almost went through Providence to cruise around and see if my AK riding shotgun gets me arrested. But it isn't like that. I just want to be there. I want to take life.

And what monster am I? I will give my life to take theirs. Am I not a dishonest fiend? I would give fifty lives to take fifty, but I have only got one. And who cares about that anyway. Always, so human; always bestowing upon life some value. There is no value. There never has been and there never will be. The Spanish inquisition.

Let this be what it is. Huh? I have loved in my life. I have done good- with my life. I have done bad things too. I like to think only strange people have not. So now what?

The hate. An epic tsunami of hate. Like the terrorists got. But less. Obviously.

This is fucking bad. This is so bad. I am really here. Here and now. And my body is a mechanism. Deep panic breaths off of my cigarette. Ok. This is the reason I keep whiskey under the passenger seat.

"What if I was your god?" the man in the band asks.

What if, huh? What if _I_ was _your_ god?

My ride to be god. My appointment with power. My first, only, and final moment of power.

Why is this my destiny? Coming up on the exit now. Jesus Christ. My cigarette's done. Light another over violent heartbeats. The shaking in my hands subsiding to nothing. Try to tune it into the music. I adjust the treble and bass for any more noise. The speakers are maxed out and I do not care if they explode.

"All I see... Is apathy... In this world, I won't be. I will be the better man. I won't

be a bitter man." I sang along.

En route to Main St., Pawtucket. I'll park at the pawn shop. Go right and hit the bohemian coffee shop. Then the insurance agency. The clothing Boutique.

"Listen while I load my gun... said to me. Something bout a chosen one is coming back. Look what you've done! Watch this while I taste the sun."

Start that song over again. Revolution Man.

"One more time and you'll be dead. At least I think that's what he said. Revolution. Revolution man. Imagine all the people"

There's not a lot of sunlight down here on Main St. The rain is falling hard. Good. Muffle screams. Your god wants me to do this.

I can see them hustling up the road; parked here on the right. With an umbrella, or an arm raising a jacket; they cover their heads. The down pour around them is blinding. They will not see my rifle sitting here. They won't see me here with their heads facing down. They will only see the whites of my eyes piercing the rain and looking out from behind my cigarette.

Maybe for just a moment they will notice my stereo. That Hispanic girl has got a pink shopping back. The pretend fur of her jacket is keeping some rain from her face. In my mind's eye the fur is binding together like the hair on a furry wet dog.

Another shot of whiskey and one last cigarette.

"So what if I was your god? South Texas death ride."

After dialing the numbers I turn down the radio.

"Hello?"

"Baby."

"Oh, hi. What's up?

"I love you very much. You've got to go and have a happy life from now on. Alright?"

"Jeff. I don't understand."

"You have got to forget about me. I love you."

"Jeff. Wai-..."

One more shot of whiskey. I'll drink to that phone call. Turn up the stereo- turn off the phone.

"I get a kick out of this. Watch you run like a bitch. I wanna break you... I can't even fake it... I'll say it again. You're on a downward slide my friend"

That's right you Texan son of bitch. Whatever you're talking about. That's right.

Looking away from the bottle and out the window, I see two Hispanics tearing through the rain away from me. They won't be there. That drop in my stomach again. Those butterflies. The nausea. I threw up my shots on the passenger floor.

What if I was your god?

Light another cigarette. Vomit lingers in and out of my facial cavities. I get out of my car, leaving the rifle, and stand next to it in the street. A delivery truck is coming and I make my way, slowly, to the sidewalk. Rain blows relentlessly across my face, pours down my cheeks. The gusts collide with my chest and arms.

I walk past the clothing boutique. I walk past the insurance agency. I flick my cigarette onto the street.

A little weak in the knees and light in the head, I walk into the coffee shop and lock the deadbolt behind me. One Hispanic youth notices me in the dim lights and then looks away. Nobody noticed me lock the door. He appears to be on edge. A coffee addict? A girl, curly blond haired young one, stares at the menu over the counter. Is the boy on edge over her? And the girl with the choppy black hair and the tattoos growing up her arms is taking the order of a frumpy man in a suit.

I flip the counter over at the right and walk into the back. My hand is clutching the pistol under my unzipped coat.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The girl was angry. My taser is charged in my left hand and I plunge the 100,000 watts into her cheek. Her feet fly from the floor and she lands flat on her back on that counter. *Clat!* I put the bullet into the underside of her chin and the rear of her head explodes out over the dark tiled floor. The bullet cracks the floor on impact.

"Oh my god!" The little blond screamed as she ran into the wall.

The Hispanic ran into a table.

"Jesus Christ!" The pudgy man dropped to the floor.

I am backed into the corner in the employee area. I shoot the Hispanic in the chest and he falls over the furniture and crashes to the floor. More screams from the girl.

Clat! I shoot her in the side of her panicked and crying head and she falls dead.

The man remains on the floor making some kind of guttural grunt to himself. I move to the back room and find a chubby girl, college aged, cowered in the corner holding a frying pan. Clat! I shot her once in the chest before rushing back out. The pudgy man is struggling with the door and he throws the lock as I put the two bullets into him. He falls out into the street. I hurry over to him and give a strong pull on his ankle and he comes back into the establishment.

I hear a scream from the street before I notice the black girl running away. Throwing myself through the door I steady the pistol and aim. The rain blowing in my face makes it difficult. But I don't miss things very often. Clat! Clat! Clat! Click. The silenced shots betray no position; the rain trapping and stifling what noise there may have been. The second shot crossed the street and pierced the window of some other main street shop. The down from her puffy jacket hung in the air for only a second before the rain pushed it to the ground.

I reload and holster my weapon and retreat back to the coffee shop taking my kerosene in hand. The Hispanic boy is crawling to the door and gasping deeply. He is leaving a slug trail of blood. I reach in for my gun raising it high to clear the silencer through the holster. I shoot a bullet into his head. Clat!

And I squeeze some kerosene onto all these victims except the girl in the back. My pistol is secured and I reach into my right front pocket for my lighter. I light the bodies one by one. I squirt kerosene onto the wallpaper and light that.

Under the energy of the rising inferno a voice catches my ear; "Help!" the girl in the back chokes out through the blood. I leap between the flaming bodies into the back and find her coughing up dark coagulate, sitting up and spilling her tears into the portion that has accumulated in her lap, and into pools all around her. I aim one shot into her head, Clat!, and she goes silent and limp.

"What if I was your god!?" I yell at her carcass. And then with a wrench in my gut I make my way through the flames, back out into the rain and rushing wind.

Hustling; I burst through the stained wooden doors of the insurance company while raising my pistol and I fire the bullet into the tall man wearing a tie and a shirt that was green like tropical seawater. Clat! Blood covers the old stone brick wall and I make my way into a centralized area of cubicles.

I am taken aback by how many heads are in here. They are shocked to see me this surprised. I see the fear; the blood clearly emanates its own presence from my throat. I open fire into a modestly dressed woman. She falls into her cubicle wall and the screams catch my attention from all around. I am disoriented as I kill the next two. Only really firing into their blurry blue or orange figures. Clat! Clat! Clat!

I planted my feet and caught my bearings; to look around. A younger man is cowering against a wall with tears in his eyes. The others are running. Out the back.

I aim for their spines. Clat! Click.

Then I look to the boy as I reload. I get his attention, "Hey! Listen while I load my gun. I hope you'll remember the chosen one." Quotations.

The kid has not moved. Only whispering, "Don't kill me. Don't kill me", at the floor between his legs.

I put a bullet into him before I give chase to the others. Clat! Through winding halls I chase their screams. A larger, whiter, more modern office and more screaming people. I should have had the AK.

"Get out! Run!"

These people had caught the hysteria like dry leaves in a wildfire.

I stop.

The ones I was chasing have made it out a glass door and into the rain. But there are others here. Clat! Clat! Clat! Two down close together. Over in the corner. Clat! A child? A boy of about ten. That's new and unexpected. I have to go. In corners and crevices they are cowering.

"I'll be back," I say as I walk away.

I run back through the building to that initial scene. There is an old woman leaving her desk and running for the exit. Clat! Clat! Clat! The rounds penetrate her body as she falls.

I retrieve the kerosene and squirt out some onto the bodies. Missing a couple on the far side. I light them on fire. One by one. Along with the cubicle walls. And I drop the clip. Reload. And hurry the fuck out of there.

More rain. People milling around outside the smoking coffee shop. Turning their heads to the cries from the distance. From over the buildings. Screams completely audible.

The sheets of rain blow with me as I am walking. The wind is at my back and I climb up three little steps into the white walls and amongst the practical and stylish casual wear. There are two twenty something's looking at the slimy blood on my face. They havn't seen the gun at my side. There is shit in the way!

"You've got to help me. Please." I said desperately. And I raised the gun and Clat!, shot one in the face. Her prettiness gone with a gory impact. The other dropped to the floor. And the girl working screamed and ran out the back. I moved around the clothes and shot the other girl on the floor twice while moving over her; Clat! Clat! Not paying much attention to the placement of the bullets. I shimmied over her.

Sirens. Close.

I stop my chase and move back into the clothing racks. I ignite kerosene on the clothes, push one rack into the curtains, and another into a wall. My heart is pounding. I ignite the two victims and rush out of the door; out into the running water streets.

I run for my car and get in quickly. The keys remained in the ignition, I started it quickly.

The cops are coming from the way of the coffee shop. I am not going that way. I am going to the mall. Up the way and around the corner.

I put the car in drive and push the accelerator into the floor. I fly through one intersection at 60 miles in hour. I keep that speed and the road dips down a hill and I drive past a bank with huge red signs and go up another hill and through another intersection and a red light.

"What if I was your god? South Texas death ride," speakers drowning me in sound.

I approach the Apex shopping center on the right and throw my car into the 90 degree turn with a cautious heal toe. At the sight of the first department store entrance I see, I rip the emergency brake and lock the rear tires, spinning the car 360 plus degrees.

The cigarette burns quickly at my deep and frantic inhalations. I take the rifle strap and throw it over my shoulder, the barrel smacks the back of my head while I open the door and step out into the rain. About four shots in my pistol. One drum on the rifle, one clip on my calf. 75 on the drum. 30 in the clip. 75 for the civilians, 34 for the police. Is this the last time I'll feel the rain? Not the last time something tells me.

The sliding glass doors oblige my entrance. I come into a far corner of the store. My mom used to take me here to get clothes. Here it is. I see all the pink everywhere immediately, right before I notice the older woman who works here occupied with a rack of soft pastel shirts.

"You!" and I point the gun in her face.

"Oh my god!" she yelps. Immediately crying.

"Go. There!" And I point with the barrel down to the entrance to the actual mall.

Another girl cowering by a wall of clothes for baby.

Turning the rifle in my hand I say, "Wait! Right here!" And I throw the butt into her nose when she turned to face me.

I approach the girl from behind. "Stand up! Go with her." I point to the lady cowering in the main isle. This girl is tan and attractive. Early twenties. Dark hair. There's another one a stones throw away.

She runs screaming when I catch her eyes watching me. I raise the rifle and aim at her. Three rounds explode from the chamber. The sound is absorbed quickly by the clothe surrounding us.

"You two!" I fire into them on the ground where they are holding one another. Five or six rounds. A head bursts across the tile and carpet. The young girl lies limp. God fucking damn it!

Screams in the distance. In the mall; rising all over. I catch the location of one That is unlucky for somebody.

I run. There is a woman cowering behind a jewelry case. I move around and fire into her. The violence of the shells piercing is insanity. It seems to punch the life out of them.

I find another woman and her daughter. Cute kid. All these people react the same.

"Don't kill us. Don't hurt my daughter."

I blow the little child's head from her jaw and shoulders. The mother screams. That's grizzly. She runs toward me and I drop to the ground aiming for her heart and fire.

Trying to get out of this store is proving difficult. I see others but I ignore them. I have got to get to a shop. In the main foyer there are still people running panicked from all the different stores. I raise the gun to my eye and shoot a man. Three quick shots. Another one. A teenager in baggy clothes. The bullet pierced his throat and his eyes went wide as he spun to the ground. I move through the gun smoke. A man tries to leave a music store. He caught my eye and retreated. I chase him back inside. And he made it to the back before I shot him down.

Screams quickly silenced at the rear left. I hustle over there. Two girl employees, one chubby, one ugly, and that guy's wife, clearly, and a kid of about 13. Dorky little fucker. In his glasses and dirty Lego blue sweatshirt.

"All of you stand up right now!"

They all kind of whimper out their little cries and hold tight to each other, feeling for what someone else might be doing. The behavior of prey. People acting like fish.

"Get on your fucking feet now!" I shoot a CD rack twice. The little plastic packages fly through the air.

They all stand.

"Face the fucking wall!"

They do, only a little reluctant.

I fire into the bodies. The employees necks. The second in line goes to pieces in place as the other girl falls next to her. I kill that girl the exact same way. And then shots to the back and head of the wife who had tried to throw herself in front of the boy. I shoot the boy in the head, once, as well.

Nice to have that out of the way. A weight has been lifted. My homage complete. I had wanted to do it in the department store.

I turn away from the corpses and make my way back to the main hall. It is a one story mall. They are running toward the far exit. I aim and it takes five shots to drop a twenty something guy in a pink dress shirt. Had to be a cell phone salesman. There is an exit directly to my left. No one runs for that one. Another goes screaming down the way. I aim and fire. Two shots. They ring out through the terrifying silence. Ricochets make amazing noises and drift into the top 40 hits annoying me from above.

I walk across into a clothing store for women. I look around and do not see a soul. I fire one shot into the ceiling.

"Oh!"

Every time. Just like the movies. Do they want to die? The dressing rooms. Too easy. There is a pretty little number hiding behind the desk with her hand over her mouth. She looks up at me through her beautiful teary eyes. Sorry. Not a parking ticket bitch.

"That won't work this time." I shot her in the face from point blank range. The moist cavity sparkles of course.

She tries to run to the employee door at the other side of the store. I bring her down with two shots. I walk over to the body. She looks like a gypsy, in that delicate red phosphorous skirt, and that obscure Egyptian looking silk blouse. Her straight greasy hair; swimming in the gathering blood pool. She writhes on the floor. I put the gun to her ear and pull the trigger before I go and investigate the dressing rooms.

There are beige curtains and ignoring the urge to look under them for legs. I tear them open one by one.

Hello. The pretty girl with freckles and braces. She'll be a knockout in a few years. Her arms wrapped around her still budding body. She only has a bra on. And jeans.

"Hold on." I tell her.

I find one other woman hiding away and shoot her twice through the areas of exposed vital organs as she lay curled in her fetal position. And again in her head.

This little one has given me an impulse. Returning to her, I drive the rifle into her temple. When she falls to the floor I tear the bra from her back and from her uncooperative bodice and disregard it. I retrieve the kerosene and squirt it over her perky little boobs. She writhes. I punch her in the nose; blood flows instantly. I light her breasts and stand up to watch them burn. I beat her in the head once again as she tries to regain consciousness. Letting the smell of burning flesh linger in the air; I take aim and shoot her right through her eye. The flames lick in and out of existence. And finally expire. Leaving only greasy and cratered flesh. The pink nipple gorgeously deformed. Moist.

I start fire on certain clothing racks that can be shoved into walls that look flammable. And that was the last of my kerosene. I throw the bottle and waste two shots shooting at it.

No more screams now. There is a dead silence. How many escaped? Having a partner might have been nice. Double the fun, I guess. There is one of those super savings superstores at the other end. I'll be neglecting an entire wing. But, this will just have to be their lucky day. Surely, I can find people hiding in there.

I make my way; firing a shot into the greeting card store. Nothing. Look around. Dead bodies here and there in the hall. I fire into the toy store. Nothing. I fire into the bookstore.

"Eee!"

Yeah. Behind the counter. I light a cigarette and go in and look over the counter. A gay guy. At least that's what his glasses tell me. Those black rimmed ones that are hot on quirky girls, but make guys look like queer book pushers. I walk around to where the counter flips over itself.

"Why did you hide here? Why didn't you run out the back door?"

"Please don't kill me." Tears on his squished up face. Choking his words out. Why is there no fucking variety here?

I shoot him in his foot. "Why didn't you run?!"

"I don't kn- It seemed safer!"

I shot him in his shoulder. Tearing him away from the clutch of his foot; exposing his stomach.

"What, are you retarded?"

"Why are you doing this?" He cried out. Spit flowing like a faucet. I shot him in his gut. He coughed blood and went limp as he fell back but his eyes kept looking. Past me; at the ceiling.

Yeah. This isn't doing it for me. I threw the gun over my shoulder and went behind me to pick up hardcover books and throw them at this guy. One by one.

"Who... the fuck... reads hardcover books... anyway!" And I shot him through his heart. His eyes stopped seeing anything after that. I smoked my cigarette, shouldered the gun and left.

To the god damn super mart bullshit. I hate these fucking places. I go over to the main entrance foyer on this end and poke my head outside the second set of doors. Cops flooding into the parking lot.

Aiming the rifle I fire shot after shot at the oncoming squad cars. Not close enough to hit a driver. But they'll feel these shots. The rain on my skin. On my face. One more round. Back inside to the super store.

Does Pawtucket have a swat team? How are they going to handle this?

It's bright in here. Harsh. Shit. I wish I started here and ended back in the department store. Fire. What can I burn here? Clothes. I go that way. A men's room. I enter the tile area. There are feet right there.

"Come out here. I won't hurt you. Just come out."

"No." A solemn man. Good for him. I fired into the toilet and it shattered at his feet.

"Get the fuck out of there!"

He steps out timidly. Awkwardly. An old black man. Fucking Curtis Loew. I shoot him in his heart and turned away before he even fell.

"Old Curtis was a black man... with white curly hair... when he had a fifth of wine... he didn't have a care. Play me a song Curtis Loew Curtis Loew."

Setting clothing racks aflame when I see a man moving cautiously out the corner of my eye. He is against a rack of candy and completely exposed. Like lightning, I hoist the rifle and fired at him. A neck shot. He lays gurgling, choking, coughing, gasping, and dying.

I walk up to him. He is dressed like a teacher in a short sleeved dress shirt and a tie. I pull the rifle up by the barrel and grasping the butt by the trigger I throw it down into his skull and feel that crack. Blood splashed out in all directions. I stood up and started to walk away.

Sirens are screaming through the walls. Through the light rock hits boring me dimly from the speakers. Oh god. My fucking stomach hurts. My eyes spinning in my head. Things become blurry and almost fall away. I sit down against the candy rack. Deep deep breaths. In and out. Breathe in the bad. Breathe out the good. Light a cigarette. Breathe in the bad. Breathe out the worse.

Oh god. Is this happiness? There is no time to think about it. Is this that feeling I spent my whole life searching for? A finality. An end to that beginning I have always known. I stand up and meander away through the store.

The sheer volume of reality involved. Perhaps I destroyed the man who would cure cancer. All these people had families. How many will cry after I am gone? How many are crying now? The tears mounting in volume. Creating a great crushing weight on the hearts of so many. A weight so heavy it can only be bore by the strength of thousands.

My attention turned to this flack jacket. Who the fuck am I kidding? Fuck this. What does it matter? I should get on with my death. Do I even really want to shoot it out with the cops? I remove my coat and abandon it. I throw away the pistol. Then drop the heavy vest to the floor and it lands with a thud. Oh, it would.

My fun is over. I don't want anything to do with this anymore. I throw the rifle over my shoulder and light another cigarette. And wander into the aisle full of cleaning products and pick up two cans of disinfectant aerosol; placing one in my back pocket, holding the other. And then walk through the field of indoor pyres. I create more flames on clothes racks. But my eye is on the exit.

It shouldn't be long. They should be heading in here by now I would think. I am only burning clothes. Waiting, I haven't seen anybody around. I haven't searched for someone either. The heat is really pretty. The fires are hurting my face. I am having fun spraying flames from my aerosol can.

This will be the last time I have fun. I think. Oh shit. The rain.

I throw the can over my shoulder and light a cigarette. Making my way with a purpose over to the entrance.

From just beyond the row of cash registers. I take a general aim out of the entrance to the mall and fire off what rounds are left in the barrel. Bursts of tile all over. Windows shattering: some close, and some far off. About six windows leading to the exit. I move in a semi-circle to the left so I can hit all of them at least once. Pumping my finger furiously to get the rounds out.

Click click click through the quiet. Crack the release and jar the drum loose so it clangs on the floor. I put down the gun, equip my flip knife and flick it open. Pulling up my pant leg; the mess of masking tape and full clip bound to my calf are exposed. I cut away the tape to free the magazine and tear it off like a band aid.

With the clip loaded I drag my cigarette and hear more sirens arriving. The police already out there have turned theirs off. But the blue and red still dances on the walls before me. Masking tape bounces in the air as I move with the gun raised to my eye. I peek around the corner. Two cop cars stationed. I see one face aiming a pistol out of his cruiser window. The other cruiser is empty. The rain is clearly falling just as heavy as it had been doing all day long.

Keeping to the floor, I move around the threshold of this super store and into the mall. My back against the wall, I am just a ferret in the corner. There are two cops in the distance scanning from left to right. Looking to, and away from, my recent positions; caught up with the sight of the corpses. I can only hit one from here; there are kiosks in the way of the other. I aim real fucking good and take my shot. He falls with the burst of sound. I notice the other cop dive into a store.

I drag my cigarette and throw it away. Standing up I run within 5 yards of the glass entryway. I take aim of the cop in his car and just before I fire the glass shatters in front of me. I pull the trigger rapidly struggling to maintain my initial aim. I move into the automatic sensor and the door is opening as from the right an officer enters the foyer taking aim at me with a shotgun. Four shots right into him. His weapon discharges once and the glass rains down all around me.

The cop in his car hangs over the door. Clearly dead. Shots over my shoulder. I return the fire but I cannot see where it came from. Glass exploding all in front of me. The door the cop had come in by opens and I run through it.

Through the rain just running. Ambulances and cop cars; there are red and blue lights everywhere I can see. I can hear the shots. The sidewalk and brick walls are bursting in points all around. There is a good distance between me and the officers shooting at me from one and two o clock. They are all gathered around my car really far away. And around the other entrance, a good distance away. The pistol strikes are not even close now. They can't hit me from where they are any more.

No one can get me now without me getting them first. So I turn and aim to the cop shooting from besides flashing lights. I can see the flames burst from his gun. That's a target. Aim. Fire. Aim. Fire. He is still shooting at me. I can hear him missing. Aim. Fire. The brick chips over my shoulder. Aim. Fire. He fell. I saw it. I turn my attention the advancing squad cars; three of them.

I fire sparingly as they advance. It is all I can do to aim for the steering wheels. The wind and water are ripping past my face and I just pull the trigger slow. Methodically. One is pulling ahead of the others. He turns his sirens on and his headlights are closing in on me. For a moment I just stare into them. But he is going to drive into me.

I fling the rifle butt down and put the barrel to the underside of my chin and pull the trigger.

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The moments of quietude/ Are meant to be pursued/ And the art to achieve them/ Comes through the number two

Broken glass in your fingers/ The final remainder/ Of nights long gone/ And never to return

But haunting the day time/ Is a task for the skilled/ And no matter what success/ Accompanied by a bitter pill

To move without notice/ And act without disturbance/ There is no assurance/ But through skill

And this bitter pill/ What can it be?/ Newton's law number 3/ The reactions to actions

To focus on silence/ Anywhere or here in the trees/ Is some sort of violence/ And there is a reaction

There is a reaction even to nothing/ Or nothing more than controlling a force/ Casting forth an awareness/ Rather than taking in carelessness

No matter how quiet you've been/ It will always give in/ And your sound signature/ Will ring through the ether

This happens toward the end/ And less and less with skill/ But it will always be there/ Buzzsaws to your silence

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Follow us into the Mirror

I don't know when the next time my friends and I will behave like ghosts will be. I do know of the most recent, and that time was earlier tonight. Really; when you're one of us; it just happens. Many people know this of themselves.

There was a veil over the moon and it was almost full. Our hut opens at the front of itself and you only need to duck out under the overhang to see the celestial glow. It looks majestic from there.

This was at the turkey hut where we do our rituals. I have a camera now and boy golly do I love taking pictures. I'm such a scamp. I photographed the symbols we'd spray painted all over the surfaces. We have symbols; like a dark corner strewn with vines. I do say so that you should believe me when I say that that can be a symbol. It represents the life force conquering darkness. Really, it reminds me of our, mankind's, only hope. Whatever that hope may actually be. And for the sake of my muse I say that that hope is almost certainly something I will manifest through my life's work. And on scales I cannot yet imagine.

There are lots of colors in our hut along with pretty pictures drawn. What we did was; cover up all the graffiti that was there with color and symbols and then proceed to claim it as our own. And we did that on the full moon last month and never really went back. But there we were tonight.

The sky was well into dusk when my peers noticed a trail leading through a field at the back corner of the hut. It was a path made by foot and it went all the way to the field's distant edge; cutting diagonally out through the square.

This trail was made for us, if for any people other than the trailblazers. We gathered our devices from the table at the hut and made our way back there. It made for great pictures because the trail was entirely ominous.

Once we found ourselves in the woods, we went left. The right direction was not visible to us.

Soon there was a local person's beast corral amidst the forest and it seemed like we were on a road, though it was difficult to survey how often this road got used. We may have been in someone's yard.

I instructed the girls to keep their voices quieter than the bugs which wined and twittered all throughout the shadows of the forest.

At a fork in the path there was a field to the right and to the left the way continued into a darker forest.

"We went through the field last time. Let's go into the darkness," I said, and they agreed.

We entered through the black void onto a smaller and much more narrow path with brush on either side of us and I took a few more pictures. Dressed in a black jacket, Sun Head's blond hair was only outshined by the Earth's true satellite glimmering through the trees. So, I took photos of both. Dances with Bees moved quietly as she nursed her illness. Her nerves screaming ever louder than the insects. I took her beer away and told her she should not be drinking. The brew was good.

We came to another opening and fork. To the right was more darkness. To the left was a cornfield.

It is to my dismay that I declare that the reader of this work will never know what we did in that cornfield. I will tell you that we indeed enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. What? Zest for life? What? zest for breaking rules? Do you steel? Do you start fires? Some do. I litter sometimes; compulsively. I bleed for a green organization; we clean the planet because it's one of the few positive ideas we could come up with. But I litter. That is my tear for our damaged mother. That is our understanding; my expression of sadness.

Sometimes I enjoy upsetting people. That is something that used to bother me. People become upset when I do what comes naturally. And instead of letting their shortcomings get to me forever, though most of them still do, I became preoccupied with finding enjoyment in their objections.

This all comes naturally and yes it was the drugs. Well, hearken to a broken rule, "Yeah, motherfucker, I'm high. And I'm thankful just to be alive." That was said by Dax Riggs of the band Acid Bath. It's easy to relate to.

I can't change my lifestyle. I wouldn't. But I believe in an absolute balance and I give back exactly what I take away. Do you read to your parents? I read to your parents.

I'm sorry. This is all about, and for, a writer man whose rules I've been following, and being forced, for writings sake, to break as I wrote this. Basic English really. Really they were demands that if adhered to would take all the art, blood, and creativity away from literature. Oh muse...

Unrealistic demands that were either aimed at me or created by somebody with a stick bored through their rectum, through their insides, and poking into their brain. Permanently. Yes! I am aware of proper English, guy! Don't like these do ya!. Do ya! They bug you don't they! Maybe you should pretend we're screaming across the generations! It might help! I hope I never forget that things can change!

And I'm not even arguing against proper English. Aside for my stylistic incongruities, I swear by words and punctuation. But by adhering strictly to rules always, writing would become; sterile, dull, and reminiscent of being a wage slave or a government pawn.

Under the Capricorn moon and in a Leo sky; these little letters are still another way to tune into the infinite. Here inside my mirror.

The artist alters the world the business man works in. That is a half quote by somebody I cannot remember.

I was only tired of writing with paragraphs. This was enough to upset you, guy. Sure you're not just upset because you can't see over the gap? Oh, what a scamp, huh (watch this; both of them)!? My adolescent antics. Har har.

This is for my muse; the man with the rules. An entire paragraph of one word sentences:

Corn. Over. Left. Darkness. Entered. Path. Up. Down. Blue?

We were on the blue trail. I hadn't noticed that yet.

The blue trail goes past the tent site I had down by the river. Sometimes it seems as though no matter where you go, you are always in your own back yard. At least it felt like that then. But why is that? Is it because the entire world is our back yard? I sure hope so boy George.

Naughty naughty rhetoric.

I must say that writing that way so proper really makes for less red and green squiggly lines on the word processor.

Well, back to our night (you forgot about tiny paragraphs in your rules).

Before we turned 180 degrees and followed the moon back to the hut we found something. It was actually what we were looking for is the funny part. I mean, of course, we didn't know it while looking.

There, mid-trail, were white rocks sized like beach balls and staggered haphazardly.

There were some smaller ones as well. It was a horse's grave. Sometimes you find those. And I will not tell you what we did at the horse grave either. Sorry.

We left and I went home to be harassed by an old man who doesn't understand. Story of my life. How about yours?

But to my muse; your rules wrecked my pace and may you never succeed in subduing art.

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Seducing the Seagulls

On my rump asleep lay my love/ Soon to be of the past she rests/ My eyes have fallen on my immediate horizon/ Sand stretched shortly before me/ The ocean crashes just beyond

Between myself and the water/ Struts a seagull petite and bewildered/ She catches my eye and I sigh/ And the lovely bird walked beyond the horizon/ Closer to the ocean

A male of the plushest whites and healthiest mass/ Was following close behind her/ Watching me watch and watching her/ He took to the blind spot/ Waves crashing high tide rip tide sand dune fury

And she comes back into view/ Standing now 10 meters away moving further/ Taken aback the girl must have a name/ What is it, Abigail? I asked her/ Abigail hit like gale force winds.

There she was under the hidden rising sun/ Watching me watch her/ Vince lingering at my immediate horizon/ My old love asleep on my rump/ We held each other's gaze

She did not move and she was aware/ Together we stared/ Back and forth across species/ Communicated with primitive eye contact/ Then lost track of what to do next

She plumed and I gazed/ Vince left and I couldn't avert my eyes/ A new bird arrived and tempted my loyalty/ But it belonged to Abigail and I wouldn't look/ Around now I took a picture

At this time I didn't know what else to do/ We had been gazing for so long/ It was time to approach my Abigail/ I walked to her leaving a head on the blanket/ She hopped then flew away

I went running back to my ex/ Take me back and we'll hide in the blanket/ While I tell you the tale of Abigail/ The bird that stole my heart from you/ You can meet her when I'm done

Outside the blanket she would be waiting/ There was a feeling letting me know/ She would come back to me/ Soon enough we emerged and looked around/ There was a bird I believed to be her

And from the distance came Vince/ From very far away he flew head on toward us/ And landed on an aluminum sign/ Within striking distance/ A moment later Abigail came

That's her I said/ Her sleek and small frame commanded attention/ We laughed about it all/ I leave you alone for five minutes/ And you're seducing the seagulls, she said

My love flew away soon enough/ Far far away into the distance/ Up over a tree line/ Into the horizon/ She fluttered out of existence

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Set at a beach/ Unsure if it matters/ Tequila tastes like saltwater/ And I'm passing the hours

Photographs with the ocean in back/ Boogie boarder finds his way to shore/ Scars always matter/ Here they matter less/ That man may take insult/ To his shrapnel wounded chest/ Scar tissue physique/ But all types roam in the droves/ The hideous and half naked/ She leaves and I worry/ I may have glanced too strongly/ A seagull is another playful child/ A sailboat on the horizon/ Makes me feel like one of the thousands/ At the countries end/ And the tequila tastes like saltwater/ As I pass the hours

Long walks navigating sandcastles/ Behind me and before me/ Underage girls meeting friends/ Obliterating the peace/ The peace that could have been/ Think about a married couple's sex/ And a fully clothed man/ Looks insane by the ocean/ The slack jaw young one,/ A girl, has been here forever/ And she is the daughter/ Of the man I've deemed insane/ Boarders collide with/ And rise over/ Crashing waves/ Girls in bikinis/ May as well be naked/ And the tequila tastes like saltwater/ As I pass the hours

Am I here because I had tequila?/ Or did I have tequila/ Because I was coming here?/ Seagulls stealing chips/ That's hilarious/ I wonder if they anticipate the swarm/ Wait for it/ Here they come/ Shoo them away and bury the food/ Fat dad, fat kid/ Two guys walk past again/ In the same direction/ And I wonder where they've been/ I am the guy with the pen/ Ignored by the world again/ Black and white are the details/ Sexy older women/ The youth are stupid/ The tequila tastes like saltwater

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Change is now/ Familiarity ends/ Security is lost/ Face the future

Cut off/ And out of touch/ New plans now/ Repose/ Exile

Or. . .

Situation could change rapidly/ Unrest/ Be careful/ Guard advancement

Anxiety/ Consternation/ Uncertainty/ Find strength within

Falsehood lies behind/ So does treachery/ Think first/ Affairs move quickly

Unforeseen events are coming/ Powerlessness/Change is good in the long run

Threat to safety/ Roguery/ Danger/ Storms/ Entangled/ Analyze this

Keep an eye on the star/ Balance/ No butterflies, no more

Honor/ Esteem/ Virtue

It happens suddenly/ Peace/ Love/ Contentment

Alas/ Unhappiness/ Loneliness/ Clouded future

Cannot stop daydreaming

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The Tale of the Monday Morning Nightmares:

From Dreaming to Daylight

As told on a tired Monday night.

I suppose this is going to push my image closer to its unfortunately destined profile on mankind's overall mural; closer to the less gentle stalker. I don't want that because I will always be the gently obsessed. Without bad intentions. Only stigmas attached to parts of me that I do not understand and cannot change.

For only I am witnessing my aftermath. It cannot keep in this way. I must cast forth my burden because I have run out of ideas. Occasionally I will relate my concerns to a confidant. But only I know the cold sweats. Perhaps my lover has a clue.

Time and time again these dreams come to me. From the time long ago after only a couple words had been spoken over a telephone. An apology if this sounds dramatic. A pixie from beyond had cradled my affection. Then like a demon in reality's mist; she stole away with that part of me.

Hanging up the phone; I walked out the doors of my adolescent home and split wood. Staring vacantly into the rugged white forest of the property. There were two people with me. I couldn't think of them or this task, or look to them, because my mind was searching desperately for that piece of my soul this creature had removed.

At the first moment I saw her I could not differentiate her from her twin. But as I became involved in the same extracurricular activities as her, to be close to her- I didn't even know my motivations at this fragile age- I figured out the twin I loved from the other.

Deep set dark rimmed, often bagged, blue eyes and blond hair that sung from its Pony Tale. Her name sounded like my mother's; my mother who has an unusual name herself. She was so quick witted; a cunning creature that behaved and thought in a dimension beyond the ones you and I exist in. This drew me to her, and only her, and it became my obsession to seek her out, to try to get close to this always fleeting and barely interested pixie.

I dated her in the tenth grade for four months. I let her toy with me, and tolerate me with only mild interest. I on the other hand was wildly enraptured and terribly naïve.

This girlfriend was my first girlfriend. Since then, many have been more prominent and important. The girls I date all share a common ground in that I truly love them. This was clearly the case then and I can tell you that it is the case still. I don't date girls I don't love. Also I get dumped and date a lot. I find myself floating on clouds of 2 to 16 month relationships. Always falling to the ground like a raindrop; only to rise again in an endless cycle of love and love lost.

The terror of love lost is what brings me to the keys today. Love lost. I know who took my virginity. I dated that bitch for EXACTLY one year. She tore my life apart. She tore everything apart; my soul, my heart, my mind, my friends, and my home life. Amor fu. Much like another after her.

My dream pixie, however, did none of these things. She simply took a piece of my heart and kept it. Lost, truly lost, I wandered from high school to a private hippy commune fronted by an unaccredited school. I "graduated" from that place.

Though I cannot remember when the dreams first began.

I know I found one year girl after my first true drug problem with amphetamines and cough syrup. I cut off my waxy dreadlocks and met this girl not worth discussing.

Maybe that was when the dreams of dream girl began. When one year girl tore up my her photos I kept in my wallet. Along with the sweet words on the back. I wonder if I have any other written words from her.

I didn't understand. That picture was important to me. How could one year girl not be ok with me keeping it in my wallet?

Now, I guess I get it.

I started fucking up in some grand leonine fashion. I can't imagine, in our small town, who took notice. Even less can I imagine who did not take notice. I was out of my mind on speed and hallucinogens again. Always drunk. One DUI. Then another, I wasn't even 18 yet.

Sometimes I saw her at street festivals. What did I say? What did she think? I cannot know. I put myself in a vulnerable place all those months.

I did things I cannot bring myself to speak about; but anyone who knew of me at the time- whom I cannot disclose- was aware of my shameful acts. Acts, plural because I can think of at least two or three events that could also be categorized that way.

Soon enough I could no longer face the world.

I moved far away. Chasing some girl next door fantasy. She was my best friend and I moved in with her in South Dakota. I was head over heels for the girl next door. But I recovered and landed on my feet. At that point I dated 16 month girl. With a story only a little different from one year girl.

Less amour fu, but really good love. The sweetest I've tasted. With 16 month girl I was out on my own with a lot of stresses. This is when I remember the dreams becoming a problem. They coincided with my discovery of personal internet networking on corporate entertainment websites.

I could contact her now. I could see her pictures now. What an old wound, I thought. I'm in Central Minnesota, it's winter and my window is frozen over. I spend a lot of time alone because at this point my GF lived at college a few miles outside of time. Beyond my window was a yellow smiley faced water tower; but deep in my exile I am also coming into the prolonged escalation of a mental anguish- lost at sea- I had only seen glimpses of at younger ages, and then witnessed the tidal wave of razor blades move over me and crash when I first moved away.

At the point that I realized I could contact dream woman via the web I was far out and adrift. Agoraphobic in the cold.

Later in life I learned that these thoughts and feelings were the first manifestations of some full blown personality disorder I'd rather not name. I was becoming the dejected, and weary, nervous and depressed, trembling ghost I am these days. This ghost with no grip blowing in the breeze. My inner flame all but extinguished as a coal fed only enough oxygen.

The twisted personality was coming through in my interpersonal relations at this point and I did not, could not, notice. For I was lost and afraid. I had been for a while. Still am. I desired the companionship that I found traces of on the internet. I was communicating with others from my past. Where this voice was coming from, and whose voice is it was, people may have wondered. I was haunting them and they could not understand. I was only a cold chill in the air of those others. It did not take long for me, alone and lonely, to find my dream girl; her words, images; her on-line message box.

Oh, the things I said were poetic in a fledgling's way. And at first she was receptive. I managed to draw forth from her a glimpse of some affection for that piece of me she still keeps.

She was dancing on some exotic hedonistic island in the south pacific that I would magically travel to over the warm ocean. The colors; pure, deep, and animated like a computer would make. Strangers made love all around us. An old friend tried to steal her from me. Perhaps he was successful. She wore tight snake skin pants. And some times she loved me. Sometimes she ignored me. Always she tortured me.

Whether her vagina consumes my skull like so much sustenance. Or she is the most beautiful woman I can conjure; my own personal Madonna of dream worship. It is never more than the endless cycle of my personal torment.

Waking from these dreams caused entire days spent in sorrow.

I could not stop myself from praying for meaning in the dreams I was having. Hoping with everything measure of my spirit the dreams would mean something. I told the pixie about them. Would the depth of my soul please her? It did not. She grew annoyed with the things I had to say.

Maybe I wrote her these same things I write now here. I know I sent her poetry. I may have begged and pleaded.

In hotel rooms I pled the sadness of my obsession and love. She responded with her sympathies. There was simply nothing she could do; for she was a creature of a higher nature than me. It is all so very one sided. She had a life. She was in England for school.

I could cross the oceans on the internet.

In time she did not respond anymore. I continued to send poetry. And eventually she abandoned this network(myspace.com) for the alternate option(facebook.com). To this day I do not go near that other network. The new chronic aching left in my wound acts up if I get too close to that website. Her refusal of proximity to my words conjured the greatest most devastating images of my pathetic heart. Which I knew reflected my mind. As always, depression ensued.

A timeless depression coupled with a rise and fall of content. When for once I accumulated the things I truly desired; a big cheap apartment, good work, friends, a beautiful girlfriend. I lost them all. My imported friends (I had imported friends from home) exported themselves. My work was sick of employing heathens to clean churches. I lost my girlfriend; she was malcontent about god knows what. I was "in my head and spinning." I had been evicted from the smiley faced frozen window place.

That worked out Ok. I started a commune of imported friends in the new place, same Minnesota town. The task was easy with the very loose management.

When the commune dissolved, I stabbed a stranger in the face in self defense as I slid sideways and alone through everyone else's upright reality. I found myself in heavy water breaking into the foot of a cliff. Holding my breath I dreamt of her:

Hand in hand we fend off the fascist government created by the merger of Wal- Mart and Disneyland. In the distance is a lightning storm. Fighting our way through the gates on the blue floodlit stretch of super highway; killing all in our way; trying to get to the roof and meet the helicopter. We make love in a cold stairwell and I know rapture. As we break through the door to the roof I am shot in the gut by a man who she shoots and kills thereafter. Laying me to the ground she kisses my lips and runs and leaps onto the rung of the evacuating helicopter. I am left dying in the harsh wind under lightning skies.

My friend -call him Patcher or Laser or Dexter- comes to South Dakota and to my aid and rescues me from the metaphorical deadly cliffs. He pulls me to safety and home again after so many years. Where I proceed to do the only thing I know how to do in that town; get wasted, get a DUI, live a fucked up life in a truck cab, abide by no social norms, and slowly and surely become ostracized among my few remaining believers.

For a long while I had no dreams. I was living one.

Concerning a bottle of rum:

An ex-girlfriend from 10th grade whom I hadn't talked to in years, and whom I have recurring dreams about, actually finished the 21st birthday rum when I got around to drinking it at a party in the hippy bumper sticker factory up the road from my parent's house. I shared it with all the people on the dance floor that night. Eventually I had danced with everyone but her. And of course I noticed. Finally we danced. It was only her and I moving together to this pop song I cannot remember the name of. She was wearing tight jeans and had bleached her head; she bore a stunning resemblance to the icon Monroe. We had our dance and found our rhythm. Finally I was about to kiss her. I brushed the bleached blond hair away from her face; thinking of Marilyn Monroe and desire six years in the making when the overhead light comes on. Some girl runs into the room shouting, "Where the fuck is that CD?!" The moment was gone. And it stayed gone.

Since then the dreams come every Monday morning. Recently I got fed up and wrote to her. Which I had not done in ever so long. I did it keeping my dignity close. Judge me if you will but this is a part of me now. You are a part of me. No matter what.

Because you see reader, the magic of my dream pixie is she is a writer just like me. Through my obsessive eyes I see in her writing my last chance to ascend to her dimension. I care deeply for her success, as I care for my own, because she may have inspired it.

I will write until I am as important a literary figure as I can be. Through my dreams I chase her to my goal so far away. I suspect she shares the same struggles of this aspiration; this writing is a power uniting us; greater than me and even greater than her.

While her presence in my mind is eternal and she is the keeper of my soul's missing piece and forever I must strive to become whole again; nothing will change the fact that we may be destined to be forever known as contemporaries, if not as lovers.

The pixie of my dreams appears when life is at its hardest. When the floor falls from underfoot I see her image; blurry in my turbulent dreaming eye.

I have a daydream- a waking ideal- where an author who is dejected and alone, understood by no one, not even his friends, gets on a train to a writer's conference in a far away city. There the author will find his dream pixie again in waking life. He had been chasing a creature of a different reality for so long and finally he can physically behold her with his waking eyes once more.

The dream ends then.

In my mind I am hoping this will be enough, but by some means I understand that it never can be. I will live and die with an aching hole in my soul.

I will continue to relive the cycle of love gained, for she often loves me by the end of the dreams, and love lost, as again I wake to realize that this is just another day in my eternity without her. Rising and falling in all ways big and small. From dreaming to daylight.

Joke with me in a dream

Astral love longing to be real

Never mind what we both know

Eternal love is ironic now

Salt in the wounds carved by time

Soaked in every other love

And still this love, never to be mine

Take a walk with me...

To connect the dream with the memory/ Sitting here I am still just only/ In dreams picnicking with the indigo pixie/ In memory she walks away briskly/ Blond locks struggle to catch up/ In dreams Gothic pillars crowd the fountain/ We bathe like it were a hot tub/ In memory she hurries away from me/ In dreams her twin and best friend/ Laugh with us and I'm accepted/ In memory those two guard her flanks/ As they hurry away from me/ In dreams we cordially part ways/ Knowing we will enjoy future liaisons/ In memory I turn from the window/ Back to face the thrift store aisles/ Through which they had seen me first/ The crippling paralyzing unthinkable insult/ Falling to the floor I sat against the wall/ Not realizing how often I'd think back on that/ Connecting some new dream of her/ To the same old memory/ This unchanging reality of me

Do you want to be my angel?

Singing dirty blond hair/ In a pony tail/ Blue eyes shine with wisdom/ Her small frame belongs in these arms/ Little black dress accentuates her breasts/ Legs crossed leaning back/ This picture on the internet/ The image of some dreams/ More prominent than broken memories/ These pictures on the internet/ Dreams come half true at last/ Her cheeky smile knows everything/ She stands by a wax Bob Dylan/ She is the pin up at a car show/ An old classmates hand around her waist/ The other holds a beer/ How I care/ Let me make you aware/ Of the way I care/ My dream woman/ I love you/ I always will/ Talk to me or don't/ I still have my dreams/ Of us/ And our love

A different love for a different girl...

Discover these aspirations/ The result of a twisted creation/ Her I can never have is mine temporarily/ In dreams the wishes of always/ Come true beyond reality/ These used to be a source of resent/ Now my dreams are my only joy it seems/ I have her/ She is mine/ We are in love/ Until I wake up to remember/ The new rejection of forever/ Woman of my dreams/ Every night I sleep only for you/ Every day I wake for the coming sleep/ To embrace this part of my life/ Was a task only to be understated/ Now in dreams/ I make love to her/ I dance with her/ We re-live every year that never was/ She wears little black dresses for me/ She wears what I like for me/ We make love the way we could have/ Can/ And would have/ If...

Eternal love is ironic now...

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Under the ledge/ The rain nicks my face/ It splashes on my shoes/ And on my pant legs

The thunder commands respect/ And this summer is wet/ The third wettest/ Since the first record

Rain falls hard/ And steady and torrential/ And here I worship/ This recurring downfall

Water falls from the sky/ Trees grow towards the sun/ Trees grow into the sky/ Water falls from under the sun

My cigarette burns wet/ It's dark all around/ To speak with the thunder/ Is such a stunning emphasis

Talking to no one/ They're all in the house/ Down on knees in a puddle/ I worship a bumper

My cigarette burns wet/ The summer sky/ Hasn't been dry/ In a very long time

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Inauguration Day 09

Good television tonight on yet another Inauguration Day; a show about dirty jobs is mining salt in honor of Herbert Hoover. Anthony Bourdain is showing me the "other Washington DC" on No Reservations. Another inauguration day, and the 84 year old from the last inauguration, who has seen every inauguration since Eisenhower, is now 88.

Truly the masses are proud to be Americans as we welcome the 44th leader, the black leader, into the White House. Obama is intelligent and captivating and he pimps the change all us tricks are yearning for. As if we'd be allowed to change.

As for me I wonder what it will take for the world to transcend beyond these misleading notions. It seems we will have no choice. Transcendence is the only option. What is left of the money is being given away and then America will be at zero- where we belong. Where we deserve to be. Let the many suffer for the crimes of the few. The way we always have.

How many conspiracies can we possibly ignore? How many lies will have us play the whore?

The problem here is that I have learned the truth. I always knew they were full of rancid milk. Never did I know exactly what kind of liberties were being taken behind the scenes and covered up on the surface. False flags are only the tip of the iceberg. What could be worse than our own government bombing those towers? How about enslaving the planet? Which is what they have done over time. Wage slavery. Convincing us that our only choice is to struggle and we should be happy they allow us this freedom.

The land of the free has the highest imprisoned population on Earth.

I exist in a world of mind-fucks who have had their ability to think critically stolen from them. People aware of the pyramid scheme (we've all seen the back of a one dollar bill) who care not to try and change things. There are trends to contend with. Reality TV perpetuates what that eye wants our reality to be. The young must be vane and ignorant and obsessed with being more self obsessed than the next. We stare into the idiot box and it teaches us lies about Pagans at Stonehenge.

The television tells us it is unknown why Silbury Hill was created. They chalk it up to Pagans doing Pagan things and the world already knows how it feels about those evil Pagans. "Those ancient dumbasses worshiping the Earth. People were so dumb back then. Pass the slim fast," somebody says. The television does not tell us that Silbury Hill is at the apex of all Crop Circle activity in the entire world. These "ologists" stand around atop the hill and speculate about Pagans on national television. They wonder why this hill was made as they overlook fields as far as the eye can see that have been the location of more Crop Circles than anywhere else on Earth. But why is this hill so high up? What was the purpose? An entire show on the structures of Stonehenge and the surrounding areas and Crop Circles were not mentioned once. Simultaneously, by underestimating Pagans, they teach us to not respect the Earth, much like Hell has. The Earth; our greatest source of strength. Oh the cover-ups.

There are other intelligences. With regards to them it is a wonder I can refer to us as an intelligence with a straight face. They show us the mysteries of the universe through awe inspiring means and we believe the television when it tells us that there is nothing special about the most special thing I have seen in my entire life- crop circles. All you have to do is look at them to know in your heart how amazing life can really be. Read a book about the circles if you don't believe me.

Imagine the curvature of the earth blanketed with people looking to the sky and searching for God. All the while God is in the Circle under their own two feet. Sometimes these people will stop looking to the sky and begin looking around them. Imagine a handful of men working crowd control. It is the prerogative of these men to ensure the crowd continues to look up. They isolate those that are looking around and redirect their attention to the sky. Problem solved so easily. They don't put up a fight or even ask why.

There is no saving people from themselves. They wonder why life is such a struggle as they work a job to save up money to buy a fancy new phone to appear more fashionable and hip to stay connected to somebody who worked a job to save up money to buy the same phone or its newer version. They have a conversation about the reality they have seen on TV and say goodbye to watch some more reality. Reality is a joke now.

Our masters did that; made reality laughable. Our masters have the masses hypnotized.

As far as I can currently tell, all the world is light. All there is is light. The light of god. The light of us. All is one. We are god and god is us. No matter what. If they would stop controlling us with lies maybe we could all look around, feed the hungry, clothe the freezing, and rebuild our world with love as the only truth. No more control matrix.

Why are our masters so cruel? It doesn't need to be this way.

I have learned what there was to be taught on the internet. Zeitgeist. 9/11 Lies. Esoteric Agenda. The lies have been exposed and yet the suppression of enlightenment continues. EVERYTHING IS A CONSPIRACY! And nobody believes me. Because they don't know. I can explain the treachery until my lungs bleed. I can explain the crimes against humanity. All the facts in the world won't save them from the television.

I have learned what there was to be taught by metaphysics and the channelers of the Pleiadians. I saw a seminar given by a manifested member of the Galactic Confederation of Light. I understand the secrets. It's all light. I get it.

We should all be one with our neighbors, except the masters keep us trapped in some nightmare and looking over our shoulders. Sometimes I feel it has always been this way but I know different. The Egyptians were peaceful because they were Sirian offspring. They knew how to get but they never took. If you've heard different it was a lie. Except now there is no excuse. The task of controlling the world used to be easier for the masters. Now it is all slipping from their grasp. I hope.

Organized religion is alive and kicking. I would love to see that sonofabitch fall but for now my sights are on the government. Religion keeps them stupid. The government keeps them bound, gagged, and forced to rape their brothers and sisters. Going to work is rape. Paying bills is rape. Playing into any of their games- insurance, health care, or mortgages- is rape (as I sit at my job and write this).

We must get informed. Learn their lies. And above all, seek the light and promote unconditional love.

Why do we allow ancient cultist sects of the descendants of reptilian alien's to control us? What a crazy statement. Exactly what they want you to think. When we discount the validity of a statement because it doesn't measure up to someone else's ruler; that is rape. How many people toiled and suffered ostracizing or worse to get this knowledge to me? I don't just make these things up. If I have said it once I will say it forever; the first things I stopped believing as a child are now the only things I believe in as an adult. Everything they ever told me was a lie.

Except for my mother. When I was young she used to tell me that everything is vibrations vibrating at different speeds. A table vibrates and is tangible. Ghosts vibrate differently than what we are used to so they are invisible. Of course I didn't understand. I was a kid. Now I know. These things are called New Age for a reason. This is the New Age. It's coming. Fuck, it's bearing down upon us. Everything we've ever known was a terrible lie and I know it, you should know it, hopefully everyone will learn it, and soon something will be done about it.

I am so tired of corruption and lies but I am thankful that I live in this time of truth. The age of ignorance is ending. In the future there will be no more secrets. Night time is over and daylight is emerging. I can see the horizon turning blue already, with truth and light; it is more beautiful than anything I could have ever imagined.

We've been in darkness for so long. And this is not a metaphor. Our solar system in its revolutions around Alcyone has been away from the Photon Belt in what the Mayans called nighttime. No longer.

2012 my siblings. A new day is here. And we are lucky enough to see the light come up. I have never been one for the dawn until now.

I hope we will create a special place in our heart to honor the memory of the lost generations of the age of Pisces.

I hope we will celebrate the shirking of our masters like nothing we have ever celebrated before.

I hope aliens will sit with me and keep me company when I feel lonely.

Because as for now I feel alone. Without the company of extraterrestrials. I feel alone knowing nobody I know believes the things I believe. Nobody I know has watched the videos exposing lies and read the books exposing truths. Everybody thinks I am a weirdo. They laugh at the things I have to say. All I want to do is help them become aware of the light. For this I am shunned. Always shunned. Shunned by the master manipulated masses.

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New Glass

Forgotten forever, forever forgotten. Emotions vacuumed into apathetic oblivion. Fishing for brilliance. It's in here somewhere. You need to know where to look. There is great joy between perfect perky breasts. You need to stick your face in there and lick it out. Female fans of mine should cum to me for sex. On the subject, girls who aspire to write put out to writers like gravity. I love meeting girl writers who want to publish. For some reason Janessa defies gravity. Painful ticks in my gut never stop. They have been there for eight years. Painful ticks in my chest never stop. They have been there for six years. Painful ticks in my throat never stop. They have been there for four years. Ticks. Fidgets. Jerking this way and that all night. Spastic spasms. Caligula was an awesome ruler of Rome. An asshole and a nut-job but awesome nonetheless. A really black cup of hot coffee is like an abortion of the fetus of a mediocre existence. Epic depravity. Nothing is more real than nothing. Nothing is real. Everything is nothing. Everything is real. I find no desire to have my fate decided by the thumbs up or thumbs down of a crowd. But how different is that from a judge and jury? I exist in a world of water and cold air. In a different atmosphere. There is a wind carrying through the air and rearranging the water. A pressure follows the drop in temperature and I find myself crushed by the water with nowhere to go. Tension is rising and this nervousness it's synthesizing is painful, fuck, agonizing. An awareness of impending doom, something is happening. This electric feeling. The sand turns to glass before I disappear. R.R.Rose is willing to ascend but has no idea what that exactly means. Only incomprehensible feelings of what it could or might mean. Ascension is the new piety. Trueness to the self and to the energy of the creator. Our creator. The link. God is inside you. Our creator. Not the only creator. There should be more insane people seeing things and hearing voices. That's good fodder for a book. My fate is to die relatively young of an unforeseen or unexpected (?) illness. Sad. A whole life to write would be nice. I can only pray aliens will heal me. Aliens. Our saviors of spirit in the sky. The real supernatural. One of the real supernaturals. Mysticism too. One of my other loves. Mysticism. What does it even mean? Will mysticism ever be tangible?

The sum of everything/ Meant nothing today/ A doomed conception/ Haunting inside two heads/ Coming through the telephone

The ghost of a child/ As old as myself/ Was never born today/ Though I had heard about him/ For the very first time

Everything is actually happening all at once/ The same way it always has and always will/ In my life, in yours, and in this world/ In an unborn sons life/ In a bride not to be/ A father and a murderer/ Making a karmic decision

I can see him for a moment/ When for a moment/ I decide to keep her

It plays at my feet and makes me smile/ In very distorted visions of certain universes/ As if this little one in my astral sight.../ Surreal magnificent delight/ Everything that I am/ And his mother as well

Damn to hell the world/ Economy enslaving me/ Presented with the option/ I would watch this life happen

On the distant horizon is the mother/ We love each other so much/ And cannot afford to live together

I hear my seed/ Crying out in the ether/ The feeling of part of me/ Removed but alive

Humbling as reality can be/ The right option is death/ Not life

Once there was a picture/ Of rainbows in outer space/ Over a planet a lot like earth/ With birds flying through clouds/ Crabs walked on the rocky shore/ With a tide low and lost

If you go inland in that world/ You will find my little girl/ Fully grown and perfect/ Living right now/ In this moment

If you went inland in that world/ You would find my son/ Fully grown and perfect/ Living right now/ In this moment

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An Angel in the Mirror

Number 01

Me:  
Reaching. Joking about terrible things. Lovers found bound. Or corpses, house sat by cats. A reason to want and a prayer for the truth. The open minded imbecile is a friend to be trusted. Nothing. Nothing. But a thickness in the ether. And the cold that witches feel when the cycle finally ends. The dying process so often strung out like so much hot mozzarella or bubblegum. Risk. Care. Dream. Expect. A tattered shirt put to frame. Tap lights setting off the clapper. Ache. Throb. Knotted. Fused and Sore. Or maybe only stiff. That word that means black sometimes. A little like bohemian. Or Bavarian? But mostly ebony; impossible. The XXX nor online-cepedias can reference this word for African American queen. Or Princess. The kind of word you've heard and known. It's gone right now. African queen or princess. THE DAMN WORD! Ok. Ok. Ok. Maybe with an m? No. Browse more porn engine searches. Black porn. Black XXX. What is the word? It also is probably a race- like Caucasian. It's not Latvian. Genetic drift is interesting but where is the word. She's got to be one of Eve's seven daughters. Seven Adams? NUBIAN!!!! Oh thank god.... Fleeting Nubian desire and the time it's cost. Returning Nubian desire always welcome. Relief. I couldn't have done it without the ether. The guidance it gave through the Akashic records. Eve's Seven Daughters were a beacon. I was able to view the index online. A-N. Numa, Numac- NUBIAN! Maybe I could have looked through any index without the Ether and the Beacons. Or maybe they'd still be there if maybe I were actively unaware of them. No more methods for remembering. Remembering ruined my proposed clump of random words. No more of. Killing moths for sport is not worth it. Waterlogged heart. My ungrateful heart. Any number of aching desires for any number of balls of fire that quiver and perspire under any number of the dresses I desire to tear away slowly. A glass of water rocking on a boat. An aversion to the light and a desire to be consumed by it. We are in love. But we can never be together. Night can never be day and vice versa. We gaze across dawn and dusk; simultaneously imaging the ecstasy we'd achieve if we could break free and consume one another; night into day and day into night. What would that be like? A very tricky question to answer. I don't know just yet if I should give you the honest response. You are an angel and I am a devil. I would think a girl like you wouldn't even want to face my direction on a map. Let's call it a presumption. I wish I could show you how truly not damned any of us are. You have shown me, at the best moment, the key to the door that stands between the light and dark energies of this world. I want you to make the connection between what I was writing and the fact that as soon as I finished there was a little note from you. I was playing inside of my mirror; swimming in the ether while searching through the astral. Call it god, go right ahead, but please see the connection. And know that as I wrote it; I had blond hair on my mind. No ones in particular, but apparently it were yours.

Her:  
I know nothing of me being an angel and you being a devil- I am no better than anyone else- and I know that I am a sinner worst of the worst, that being the reason I need a Savior- a pure and holy Savior- Christ Jesus. A girl like me has no right to judge anyone for I have been made clean only by grace through Jesus' blood and nothing that I do or ever could do would ever have made me good.  
Do you believe in morality?  
I look forward to your reply.

Me:  
Dear angel,  
I do believe in morality. Morality is subjective and relative. It is my belief that to be balanced one must have healthy doses of contrast. In this case to be truly moral; one must be truly wicked. And compare the two. Morality should come from a fear of its opposite; compassionate enough not to wish those things on others; and enough experience with the unjust to gage what ones morality looks like beside the wickedness we've known. Too much morality can be cumbersome. However, they are two sides to the same coin and one can just as easily function in place of the other. You are not a sinner, worst of worst. Even at your worst you aren't doing anything wrong. It is morally wrong to kill. But not always. Kill or be killed comes to mind. It is not morally wrong to make love. It is wrong to rape. Or, it is ok to lie, so long as your intentions are good. What the church does to millions of beautiful lives is morally wrong, to say the least. The whole thing steals your free will. Gone. Forever. Sorry to say, morality is one way those people at the Vatican derived to keep their followers plentiful and in bondage. No one can argue with doing good for others. Meanwhile, certain atrocities go over looked because we all know of the good intentions of the whole. If you take away your god; pretend he does not exist for a moment; take him out of the picture; take away the church; take away the bible and the legend of Jesus Christ; so disappears damnation. Hell is gone. The principles of goodness stand. But they aren't mandatory; like the best things in life. The lies that have been told to you are the same told to millions before you. They are effective, precise, and they take advantage of something intrinsic to human nature; so they are timeless. That's why religion goes for the babies. Get em young. You don't usually unlearn the things you learn early. I can think of no other way to put this; there is nothing to worship. You know what our damnation is? That we get but one life. And when we die; there is but a vacuum. And nothingness. That is what scares people into creating gods and belief systems. We cannot accept the nothing waiting for us. And we will do anything to create something in its place; afterlife. There is a reason no one knows what happens when you die. But what you gain from an empty death is a life of freedom. The ability to live for desire. To lust without shame would be like walking without shackles, no? To live for life instead of heaven is what god would want if he gave a damn. We don't need religion to be good to each other. We made religion and put it in there. Human decency was around before Jesus. Jesus would have asked what Mohammed would do. I just think it's sad because you are an amazing girl and the world may never know it because of your beliefs. I almost didn't. How wise you've been to ask my opinion. I feel honored to talk to you because your virtue is so radiant it's humbling. All those sensations exist apart from god. That is life. Christians age well because of those same virtues. But old priests resemble little boys because they've been feeling the same things, saying the same things, and doing the same things, since they were young. And that's more sad than endearing. It is easy for me to disbelieve god because I have a grander view of the landscape from the outside. From within, sorry hot girl, you can't see very much. And seeing is believing. You are blind. You see through your faith. So your faith is not blind. More like the wrong eyeglass prescription. I want to spend time on something else before I go. Believe me when I say that you are far more special than religious debate implies. But this debate will help us get to know one another well and I am excited for that. I do witchcraft my love. Innocent magic. If I could paint; I'd paint you with the wings of a bat wrapped around your body; flames rising all around you; blond hair falling straight, eyes looking downward behind a coy smile.

Her:  
I appreciate the time you took to explain your beliefs. I think, however, that your beginning statement summarizes our fundamental disagreement. Morality, by definition, is conformity to a system of values. For morality to mean anything there must be an origin behind it. If we all did what we "felt" was right in our own hearts, what right would we have to claim that our sense of morality was any better or worse than cultists or extremists who would reach their idea of "morality" through the deceit, murder or rape of others. Morality must have an absolute standard, and it must apply absolutely to everyone, regardless of whether they accept it or not. By you stating your standard of morality you are making yourself god. Both beliefs (mine and yours); there is a god and a standard- right and wrong. You base your right/wrong on what you're feeling, whatever you want. My belief is unwavering- what He states in the Bible will never change. We could go back and forth for a long time over what we believe. I find your way with words fascinating.

Me:  
Correct. I do believe myself to be my own god. My search for truth comes second to my search for you. Be that as it may: you've dumbfounded me through a dead end. If I were to stand at that dead end and think; my thoughts would be of sadness. You said god delivered you from fear, anxiety, and confusion. I feel those things are a very important part of life. But you enlightened me. I realized that for night to become day it needs to think more like the day. And for day to become night; it needs to think more like night. I don't care about these things as I don't care about the existence or non of god. It does not matter. The only thing that matters is your beauty and my desire. Tell me what we can do about that. We could go back and forth forever and honestly I was hoping we would. I was hoping that by the time we were done there would be nothing left but lingering sweat. How naive. It is hard to explain the way I care. My beliefs equate sadness with breathing. To live the life you do is to be happy. To live the life I do is to be sad. Angels and devils. So I adapt. I have learned to breathe the fire of hell as if it were air. Call it preparation. I could not speak to you without laying 21 and 3 cards on the table. I don't care about what you and I believe. The fact is this; you are the most beautiful creation I have laid eyes on. I knew I could use religion to engage you. But it was a ploy. Just like everything I will ever have to say to you is a ploy. Forgive me for this. But I want you to be aware of it. Because I would never lie to you. And I mean that. Since a very young age I have thought of you as the pinnacle of beauty. Someone to be placed upon the mantle and bowed to in respect. Bowed to in worship. What do I do with that? If your answer is unsatisfactory; is it ok if I try again from another angle? Because I promise I will anyway. I adore your lifestyle and think it compliments you perfectly. But think about all of this carefully. Your responses could change your life. I never want to agree with you. But I want to disagree with you forever. Truth is what we make it. But seriously,..................... goodnight angel.

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Jesus Christ/ Might it be alright/ To talk about death/ And proceed to die/ To the dismay/ Of friends and family/ If I think about dying/ And talk about dying/ Make preparations to die/ See death in the trees

Am I dying?/ Please no/ Jesus Christ!/ Please no!

000000000000000000000

Lucid Birthday

All you need to know to be caught up is that my girlfriend and I drove an hour and a half out to the coast to do mushrooms with our friend, the Jadyn, who works as a waiter by the beach and that currently we haven't met up with him yet. We are sitting in a Wal-Mart parking lot and we've been here long enough for me to start passing the time enjoying certain music from my CD collection that I haven't listened to in years.

My girlfriend is doodling with some markers on a dinner plate art project type thing that she had bought earlier today from a craft store. As far as I can tell it is just a white plate and markers... I am enjoying this song that sounds like a battle hymn of tiny evil gnomes. As the song ends I see the Jadyn enter the parking lot before I hear him calling my cell phone. Instead of answering the call I reach over to flash the high beams of Rachelle's car.

The Eliminator pulls up next to us and I get out to greet him. His head is freshly crew cut and he is smiling wide like he always does when he is in a good mood; eyes sparkling. He grabs my hand, and I his, and he pulls me close.

"Happy five minutes until your birthday," he says.

"Oh thanks man," I reply, "What's go'in on?"

He tells me to hang on and hops into the passenger seat of my girl's car. From under his sweatshirt he pulls out a gallon sized baggy stuffed full of the magic fungus. Nothing the Jadyn does will ever shock me. But goddamn if it doesn't make me laugh.

"I got like eight people waiting for these things," he said.

After a little chit chat and some phone calls we head across this Rhode Island beach town to a safe house because the shrooms need to be bagged up.  
\------------------------

Walking up the steps to the house I laugh as over the phone he tells people he'll be meeting with them at the beach in a few minutes. He hasn't even bagged them yet.

"I've been telling them a few minutes for hours," he said.

"It's funny cuz that's how it works. You could probably say that all night."

My girlfriend hasn't been saying much lately. She gets likes this all the time. We are in some house with a couple people I don't care to introduce to you. If it were up to me I wouldn't have been introduced to them myself. But we sit and try and occupy ourselves while the Jadyn makes small talk and figures out how to efficiently weigh out mushrooms into eighth ounce bags.

I figure he should have 20 eighths when he is done. I look around at books and boring furniture and try and bridge the conversation gaps to the best of my poor poor socializing abilities.

The customers start arriving rather than waiting and these people were even more difficult to communicate with. Let's have a chat sports fans in the Sox shirts. Both of you.

"Who do you think the first guy to eat a mushroom was? Who would look at the thing growing out of cow shit and be like, man, I should eat that?" said the sports fan. How many times have I heard that before?

"I don't know who it was. But I bet a cousin or two of his died when he spread the word. Eating the wrong mushrooms, ya know?"

"What?"

They don't get it and I try to explain further.

"Porter, shut up, you're confusing people," the Jadyn said.

It's true. I was. I shut up. Thinking instead that I do that all the time. One day silence will be my virtue.

Eventually all the mushrooms had been distributed and we got the hell out of there. The plan had been to trip on the beach. But all this business had taken most of the evening's time from us. Instead, a consensus is made to trip at the Jadyn's campsite at Burlingame campground.

We walk out into the residential streets and all pile into Rachelle's little black sedan. I get into the back because the rear doors don't work and it was easier this way. The Jadyn is in shotgun and he hands me a beer.

"You guys wanna eat some mushrooms?"

"Can I have a stem?" Rachelle asked

The Jadyn said, "Are you serious? I made the bag all caps because those get you the most fucked up."

He passed around one cap after another and I choked each one down with beer. Mushrooms are notoriously hard to swallow and these ones were about the grossest I've ever had. Rachelle swallowed hers with a half empty Gatorade.

We didn't eat too many before the Jadyn got out to go to his truck so we can follow him to the campground. He gave me his beer and told me to finish both before we arrive because of a strict zero tolerance policy of alcohol.  
\---------------------------

20 minutes later, at the familiar lot outside the Burlingame main office I can feel the subtle onset of psychotropic feelings. I joke at Rachelle. She's been having a hard time lately about how I am a draining person to date. Once again it has taken its toll. I know she has nothing to fear in the immediate future. Thus it's hard for me to not find it a laughing matter.

I heard a noise to the right, by the woods. Maybe a person tromping it sounded like. I looked into the spot until I was assured there was nobody there. That happens all the time.

The Jadyn comes out with a slip of green paper for us.

"Hand that to the guy at the gate."

There was no guy at the gate. We drove on through past a rear parking lot and into the darkness of the late night camp ground. Quiet time started a while ago.

Without having any idea of our own in regards to right turns and left turns; we follow him first on pavement and then on dirt. Arriving into a relatively secluded semi oval of a camp site. His tent over to the right.

I find his tent to be funny and I know that it's not. It's only a tent. Still, it makes me laugh. Rachelle always takes a long time to get out of cars and I meet the Jadyn over by the picnic table without knowing what to do with myself.

As we stand around the table I say, "Did you know the easiest way to stay quiet at night is to not talk louder than the insects?" And as he ignites the lantern I add, "Do you ever run out of propane?"

He thinks my insect comment is interesting and says he does not run out and that even if he did he has more. "Get paper," he says.

I find some in Rachelle's backseat and I use her art project box plus a few pieces of notebook paper. While I crumple it into balls and toss it into the pit, the Jadyn stacks logs in a log cabin design. I have no idea why he makes log cabins over tee pees but it should be fine so I don't say anything.

Certain little sticks are added by me and he lights the paper. It catches more or less and after only a little blowing he tells me to grab a couple beers. I drink a little of the orange juice Rachelle bought before I open the cooler for the brews.

Rachelle is sitting silently on a prominent rock. And the Jadyn suggests we remove his truck box and use it for a bench. We do that and a moment later he pulls out the mushroom bag again.

We talk about the ways they'll make you gag. I have trouble with the initial contact of the mushrooms with my tongue or cheeks. The Jadyn has the hardest time swallowing them.

We laugh under the hum of woodland bugs and cho*ke on mushrooms and orange juice and beer. Soon enough there is only mushroom dust in the bottom of the bag. That's the good stuff. We throw back our heads and the Jadyn pinches dust into our open mouths.

I'm already tripping and I wonder about the effects the offset of dosing will have in the immediate long run. But it doesn't matter. I'm drinking this beer and they start burning money. I pull out the dollars from the fire and protest that these moneys can be a tasty beverage or a slinky or anything. They insist on burning the money so I grab my camera and take some pictures.

The fire is blue from the wire that held the firewood together.

"I'm going to go find more wood," I tell them.

It only takes me a second to realize that I am surrounded by sleeping people in all directions and open woods are nowhere to be found. So I halfheartedly continue searching in stupid places before walking the 50 feet back to the site.

"No wood, huh?" the Jadyn says.

"I figured out that instead of keeping the fire going; when it dies down we're just going to wander around instead. That's my wood."

I take a few more pictures of the fire and of the Jadyn's picnic table spread that has graham crackers and flowers obscurely laughable, and the lantern, candles, and orange juice on it. Sitting again by the fire I watch as Rachelle gets up and silently walks off into the darkness.

For a long time there has been an opposition between my beliefs and those of the Jadyn. Well, he was on board with our cult, the cult we created together, until, what an educated guess tells me is jealousy set it. And when the Jadyn opposes something there is no greater anti- force on Earth. He cannot be supportive of a masterminded venture masterminded by anyone other than himself. He is anti-supportive, that is to say. One time we almost threw one another off a cliff having the same conversation, albeit less dignified; that was last Gemini sky.

Months later we don't fight about the cult anymore. As two proactive and equal minds we silently agreed to drop it. He left the cult and we don't talk about it anymore. But when he slyly critiques my life, my occultist tendencies, it makes it all too clear that he cannot understand. Close-mindedness is an invincible monster and it lives inside of his skull.

"Those cards you live by don't mean anything. You can't hide from the world in the stars, cards, dreams, and palms."

"Those cards have all the knowledge in the world in them."

"Are you serious? That's the most retarded thing you've ever said."

"It's archetypal and synchronistic. You just don't understand. You aren't informed enough. Define meaning. Try that."

We discussed meaning. But I knew I had him. After years I realized that his "anti" force is reliant on a flawed definition of the word "meaning". Meaning has no meaning, unless thoroughly deconstructed at which point it becomes a moot point. Words might be the best access to the meaning of meaning. Either way, he lives out in the world, face to face with its inhabitants, our fellow men. And he wonders why I live inside of ancient knowledge, though he doesn't consider it to be such. He tells me to live in the real world because he knows full well my weaknesses. I never forget that he was my bully in grade school.

It is the same world he can bend and manipulate whimsically which stands rigid and impenetrable before me at every turn. It is my agoraphobia he uses as my Achille's heal. How weak I must be that I cannot face the world. I am the stoic and he is the indignant. We will forever be at odds. I am ok with that, because I know he needs me as a friend and so much more. It then saddens me that he can understand me so fully and yet remain so ignorant through his dominant nature and pride. There is so much more to say, but we drop it as soon as we both realized where we were heading. Like two lizards in two separate cage clawing at the glass trying to kill each other.

Rachelle came back and sat next to us. I offer her some orange juice but she says no. And that is bothersome to me. Because on mushrooms orange juice is the nectar of god, or blood of christ. The act of giving it to her symbolizes her taking a piece of me within her. That life force contained within should represent my life force. And she has denied me. But then again, she would.

Apparently she had gone off to pee. But she was gone for a while. We had seen her when she walked away; it looked like she walked into somebody's campsite. Or like she was sitting around off yonder. She said she had been looking for beauty. And as she said that she revealed a pin head sized snail from the underside of a tiny rock.

We put a flash light on it and crack jokes about it. I point out that a snail shell is a fractal. Subject to the pattern making force one hears of when learning the tarot. Or Jakob Bernoulli's "miraculous spiral", the Fibonacci sequence, something seen in low pressure systems and galaxies. Soon the snail poked its little antennae out from its shell and into the light rays. We talked about putting the creature back into its natural environment or keeping it in a mayonnaise jar with a stick and a leaf. At an appropriate moment I quote the dead comedian genius, Mitch Hedburg, saying, "Its damn sure used to air." We all know the joke and we all laugh.

"I was waiting for that," said the Jadyn.

We talk about how weak these mushrooms are. We are all only subtly tripping. Tripping, but no balls involved.

Soon enough the fire burns away to almost nothing. It feels like about 2:30. After peeing in the woods I ask, "Do you guys want to go wander around now."

"Nah man. I gotta work tomorrow, ya know? Just be careful cuz all this shit looks the same at night. If you get lost remember 764."

"Alright. 764. Sure you don't want to chill out for a little while longer then?"

"No man."

"Alright," I said. I walked over, grabbed his hand, and him mine, and pulled him close, "Thanks for the drugs man."

"No problem, yo. Have a good birthday."  
\-----------------------------

Rachelle and I are walking through dark woods now. Surrounded by tents and campsites and sleeping mammals. I had taken a drink of French roast from my thermos and grabbed a beer for the walk. We've been walking for about two minutes and already I cannot wait to get back to the coffee.

Across the campground is a lake I want to go to. We are walking there. At the bathrooms and showers we take a left. I make a mental note of that so as not to get lost on the way back.

"I don't think this is going to work out between us," she tells me.

Not this again. Though I must admit the conversation had been casting a shadow long before it became real. I'm not speechless. I tell her exactly my sentiments. The future is unknown. But for now we are ok. We should enjoy the time we have together while we have it and damn what is yet to come.

I said, "All you need to know, is that no matter what I'm doing, whenever I'm doing it, or whoever I'm doing it with, and that goes for this moment, I am just really scared."

She understood my sincerity. And she understood that my actions aren't anything more than reactions to the forces that control all of us. Truly, for the time being, I need her. She will always need me. But that is for her to work out for herself.

I have to get on with it. After all, this story is being written for a writing contest about being invisible. I forgot that I am a writer and that I am writing about myself. Actually, I wish I had had that in mind since the beginning. Keeping to first person POV is a serious hassle. And I've just torn down that wall. I am not actually at a campground right now. No. I am in my bedroom, and it is twelve days later. That being said, I have decided to switch to third person POV. Having explained that; I shouldn't hear any complaints. Because if anyone finds the switch to be in poor skill, than that means they did not read this paragraph. And that means they were skimming, and that means I don't care what they have to say.

The campsites grew closer on either side as the pair walked along a road sometimes made of dirt and sometimes made of asphalt. Always they walked without taking turns. Porter had on a pair of black pants, girl pants actually, that cut off at about mid shin. The pants had strings that he allowed to hang and dangle. Walking barefoot with a red shirt that looked black in the night; he could not be seen or heard. And even if he could be heard, there was no one awake to hear him. The witching hour was upon them.

Rachelle looked to the sky, keeping her hands wrapped tight around Porter. "What constellation is that?" she asked.

"It's Leo," he said.

The moment was perfect. All the upset was behind her. Love shined down from the full moon light. Her beloved had finally learned which constellations were which and like always he shared his knowledge with her.

"I hate Leo's," she said.

I just laughed. She continued on about how so many of her friends are Leos too. I didn't care. I'm freestyle POV and tense jumping in protest now. I am going to spend a lifetime conforming to the standards of tense and POV. I've spent all my years getting it wrong. Now, I've figured out how to stay in one tense, maybe, but still resent the necessity since the ability didn't come easy.

Present, first person: The sound of her pants scraping on the ground is more than I can take. Her pant legs are too long and they scrape scrape scrape through the silence. My feet are bare. My pants are soft and silent. Nobody would ever know I am here were it not for her. Were it not for her, at this hour, I'd be invisible. Naturally this sensation becomes slightly more critical when to the right of the path is one campsite not yet asleep; still awake and boozing and making jokes.

But Rachelle's pants destroy his illusion of invisibility. Hell it wouldn't be an illusion if it weren't for her pants. Once out of the earshot of that site he asks her if she can't roll up her pant legs because he's going to pull his eyes out and shove them in his ears.

"You don't know how badly I need this," she said.

If I didn't understand that; I couldn't understand anything. I've never heard anything more reasonable in my life. That scrape scrape scraping was holding her together. Much like I could say my beer was doing for me.

Rachelle sat down for a reason Porter did not know but he sat down before her. Both sat Indian style, and they held one another's hands. Further down the path the RV's began. The most prominent representations of the evils that were asleep all around them.

I said, "You hear that? That's a very good sound." A man is snoring loudly in the darkness. "That is the guy you want to be asleep. Only certain men snore like that. And they are the dominant ones; the ones with a will that could have power over your own. When that man sleeps- ha- it's just good."

We moved forward, pressed onward. I accepted that I would be listening to her pants and so would everyone along our path. The only thing I had in my pockets was a knife. So be it. Somewhere around now she asked me if you can read anything in the patterns of clouds. I told her that there is an art to reading anything than can be observed. Albeit, I cannot tell you the future by the clouds. Still, I know it can be done. Most likely you would ask someone about their reactions to the clouds and report something about them back to them from their responses.

Filthy filthy humans unlike myself surround me. I am not one of them. For I only walk freely in the smallest of the hours. When the rest of the world is dead my heart sheds its usual dread.

After walking this trail for quite awhile, toward what I thought was the lake, water did in fact appear in the distance to the left, beyond some reeds. And following the shimmering water through the sloping campground we found ourselves at a shoreline. Though not the one I had hoped for and remembered from the days long past. It was the task at hand to find a location to observe the water from.

When we did find a clearing at the water's edge, it was our dismay to discover a smaller sized aluminum boat docked for the night. And in the poor lighting it appeared there was a man asleep inside of it. We stood silently watching it. I, a little closer than her. I could hear her wondering why I wasn't saying anything. And the reason for the silence, as I explained to her shortly after, was; if there was in fact a man in that boat, I would like to be aware of him before he became aware of us. Alas there was no man. Only a docked boat beside the two most perfect boulders. I walked to the outer most one and sat and my beloved soon joined my side.

Behold the most perfect lake. Stretching exactly as far as its beauty required of it. A newly Aquarian moon stood commanding over the 1 o clock position horizon. Shades of amber and black held their form on the calmest water I have ever seen. And it occurred to me that this was one of my mirrors and we were inside of the threshold. Behind us, outside the mirror, was the sleeping evil. Before us was the transcendent.

We talked; under the insects, and of every little beauty to be beheld. Two lengthy shadows being cast on the water by distant tree lines were complimentary of each other. They were lovers. At the point where the two shadows met was a rock. It was not difficult to draw a mental line from our rock to that rock. And even easier to draw a line from that rock into the sky and into that moon that shined only for us.

From the banks far away the sound of coyotes carried out. The more I became aware of them, the more excited their clicks and cackles became. I don't care what it is like in your world, because inside the mirror that is not a coincidence. The ether is thicker in there.

Everything is part of everything else and we, us and the coyotes, act in harmony. The water birds squawk in accomplice to the lighting of our lighter for a cigarette.

When the creatures become silent, Rachelle and I talk to one another. When we stop talking, the creatures, possibly too far away to know, continue speaking their poetry and singing their songs.

This is invisibility. And you've got to try it.

I stood up and Rachelle said, "Can you just let me enjoy this all for a second before you destroy it." With that I threw my beer bottle out into the water and the splash was nothing more than a large fish striking the surface.

Upon leaving we noticed that we were right next to the boat launch and could have been observing from there. Though, naturally, that would have not been as perfect. We stood where the land met the water. Stepping out into the flat plane I said, "Oh my god." She said the same thing when she did the same thing. The water was warm like fresh blood.

I realized that frogs bellow when lovers feel love the most. I had always had a sneaking suspicion. Frogs mean love. "It's what the Hallmark Company doesn't want you to know," Rachelle said.

At the nearest bathroom facility I stood in a shadow while Rachelle did her business. This was the last time my vision moved in bubbles as I stared at the illuminated ground outside my cocoon of darkness. I thought about how the previously awake would now be asleep and now others would be waking up to go fishing. Rachelle would tell me that it does not matter; we are only two people walking.

I quietly told her about the website I was involved with. Though I had told her about it before when I said that she could never look at my work there because a certain few pieces might be devastating to her. I told her about all the people that get worked up over the things I write. The reactions I was hoping for are now tangible. Genuine revulsion from the masses. And also genuine respect and adoration from those that truly understand. I live and write for both types. Only a little more for the appreciative. Certain older women have now come into my life, an unexpected demographic but so appropriate in reflection. These women know exactly what to say. And now my life has meaning. I told them about how I have trouble finding ways to be appreciative enough. In the few readers I've managed to gain; my work took on a new and welcome dimension. Oh, how I now long for the world. To deal my writing the Sun tarot.

This piece was written for theartfuldodger- my Jo-, and for Lynnor.

Soon Rachelle took a wrong step, stumbled and her foot stomped hard. I told her how a guy name Suzuki says that energy can only change its form. There is a finite amount of energy in the universe and that amount does not change. Someone else said something to effect of, "The laboratory always holds interest for the true seeker." The shockwave emitted from the banging of her foot is energy being transferred. And then I knew what I had been suspecting.

We got viscously lost for a very long time. The energy of our perfect walk had transformed into something jagged and ugly. Exactly like Rachelle's stumble. We walked long enough for my back to become sore. Long enough to see the same dumpsters, port o potties, and earthbound garbage over and over. Always looking for the campsite 764. And following the 500's in hopes of meeting the 600's to lead us to the 700's only to discover they'd taken us to the 200's.

We rested for cigarettes once in a while; always wondering what time it was. We decided it was perpetually four o clock. But I knew we would find the site soon enough and get to East beach in time to watch the sunrise exactly when it should.

We lit the lighter over and over, always hoping for good news painted on the rocks. But good news was not ours to have. And finally we found a sign pointing to the camp store. Hopefully there would be a map there. Or else we would wait for a ranger, or anybody really.

Walking past the ground keeping and maintenance buildings I saw the words we had needed to see. "Park Ranger" written on the back of the truck. The ranger was showing up for work when we approached her.

"We've been lost for a really long time, can you show us the way to 764?"

She was sympathetic and had a map which to guide us with. We all realized that we were nowhere near our site. It was so very far away. The ranger was about my age and had stringy brown hair and seemed like she'd be a reasonable person. But when I asked her for a ride she said no. They can't do that. I pressed on that it was very early and no one would know. And she refused.

This whole being lost part could have been left out if it weren't for the map she gave us to guide our way. The water, the lake, had been removed. Ranger Sue, as we named her, had eaten that part of the map we decided. And it was so strange for the entire quarter of the map that pertained to all that beauty we had seen, to be missing.

Eventually, we made it back to the car. I drank the cool French roast. Around first light we headed to the nearby beach and watched the sun rise from on and under blankets. Rachelle took a very short nap while I fell in love with a very feminine seagull named Abigail. Whom I later wrote a poem called "Seducing the Seagulls" about. Rachelle thought up the title.

I had the most perfect birthday I could ever remember. That statement is both true and gay as hell. We left the beach around 7 am and headed to central CT. We took a scenic route and even detoured to Witch Meadow rd, where we walked into the witch's meadow before leaving. It was very much a meadow. Something bad must have happened there. Poisoned soil or dead natives; we did not know. We just turned around and left. Rachelle bought me a deck of Gothic Vampire Tarot cards and a book on astral projection at the book store. And eventually we went home to sleep away the leftover mushrooms. That night we had pizza for dinner and held each other through a movie before she went home. Also, the sex was great.

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Nothing other than/ What occurs naturally/ Will ever be real/ At least not to me

There is no handhold/ In your craggy way of life/ If it can be called such/ Which it cannot/ Way of non-life/ Is more correct

STOP arresting me/ STOP taxing me/ STOP bothering me/ Just let me be/ Please

Nothing matters to me/ And I'm left to realize;/ For that,/ They'll arrest me

And that doesn't bother me/ If it really must/ So shall it be

Warrants. The threat of/ Unwarranted

No more will I submit/ And so I submit/ To this decisions reality/ Sadly

Now every moment/ Is better than the last/ The girl I love/ Trumps all else

And nature?/ You hold my soul/ And nurse my broken spirit

Man is so evil/ Everything we create/ As a rule of thumb/ I stay away from

Give me my girl/ And the natural world/ And an hour glass/ Counting down/ Until it all catches up

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A joke/ One way to look at it/ This is all/ A joke/ Not my writing/ No/ Not my writing/ Your world/ Our world/ Our world is all a joke/ There are humanoids in space/ Laughing at this joke/ Some might be crying/ Others are laughing at the joke/ Our civilization is utterly pointless/ Utterly laughably pointless/ A joke/ A pointless joke/ Eat fast food on the way to work/ Pay rent and pay insurance/ Try and try to be happy/ If at first you don't succeed/ Try and try to be happy/ No one wants to love anymore/ This used to be about love/ Now we try not to hate/ Hoping to love/ Despairing in hate/ Paying/ Always only paying money/ There is nothing other than money/ Don't mind me/ I find this funny/ A joke/ A funny money joke/ So now I'm done laughing/ It's not funny anymore/ This joke is not funny anymore/ Now it's just sad

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An Angel in the Mirror

Number 02

Her:  
Let me know when you've finished the book I sent you-- I really hope you do find the time to read it. I know you'll be glad you did by the end of it. I'm praying for you. I will finish listening to the Galactic Light alien man giving a seminar on the internet. I don't believe him at all but we can't even discuss that because you're basing what you believe solely on how you feel. I can't discuss feeling. Hopefully after you read the book we can discuss that. :) I hope this doesn't come across snippy; I'm a little sleepy! :) I hope you have a great night!  
Angel

Me:  
I could never think you're snippy. But just for funsies I'll be equally not snippy. There is a serious reason that you can't discuss feelings. Feelings are, well, like feelers; designed to guide you through the world. Every person of strong faith in a "godhead" has had their feelers removed. There is nothing I could ever do or say that will make you realize that your religion is only a terrible lie. Maybe that man is not from space. But I hope he is. If not; it was only a hope anyway. Not a faith that will control me, and my free will, for my whole life. If I prayed, I would pray for you too. But since I don't, I will admire your mind, lust for your beauty, and reflect on my sad feelings that we may always be worlds apart. I will do my best with the book you sent. Goodbye my love

Her:

If feelers are designed to guide you- tell that to the 8 year old girl who got raped by a man directed by his "feelings" or countless other heinous crimes that people commit because they "feel like it."

I definitely have feelings- I love, hope, etc. So that's a silly statement to say that just because I believe in God I have no feelings. I am just not solely motivated by feelings. If we all did as we felt this world would be a horrid place to live.

My faith doesn't control me- on the contrary I am FREE- free from sin and from death. I couldn't feel more alive! :)

You just said you don't even know if what you believe is right. How do you know what I believe is a lie then? You seem to so strongly believe what I believe is a lie and I would like to know where you came up with that? I encourage you to keep searching for the truth. I am confident if you search you will find it.  
I wish you the best,  
Angel :)  
Sorry it took me so long to get back- classes, working, etc are busy!:)

Me:

I write about that a little bit. That 8 year old girl. Or about people that go on shooting sprees in malls. I try to include all the worst treacheries in this book I'm writing. That girl is a tricky situation no doubt. But don't tell me that. Tell god.

That alien guy I sent you says the worst people in the world are supposed to do the things they do for whatever reason. In a roundabout way he may have said it was a matter of karma.

I guess I see your point. But this freedom you feel is only one kind of freedom. And the two things you are free from are interesting. No one is free from death. We all experience it in the same way; alone. Sin on the flip side of the death freedom is a form of control. There are people, still, controlling the world through religion. Feelings are like when you put a rat in a maze and tell him to find the cheese; they can be predicted. On all levels. Fish act with feeling to be caught. Hunters manipulate the feelings of game with urine. Con artists manipulate the feelings of little old ladies. Religions, the beasts they are, manipulate entire human populations. Most tear through history with death and carnage. But they always seem to justify it with faith. And the whole world understands, because they've got faith too, or they declare war. Whatever the case, do you see what I'm getting at?

Sins are only deer piss to a hunter. Sins are the greatest of human values because those values are obvious, everyone knows to act correctly, it's where culture comes from. Religion nor laws have ever stopped the people who will do terrible things from doing those terrible things if they so desired.  
I'm glad you feel so alive. An awareness of death will do that for anybody. And you have that awareness in the most eloquent way.

No, I do not know what I believe. And only because everything changes. Nothing stays true. Not gravity or the universe. To say god created these things and he knows what's best is to ignore everything that science does.  
It is hard to express this next thing. Think of how you feel about Muslims. A misguided people, right? But still a guided peoples. Hindus might be guided by cows. Imagine how they feel about Americans and our beef consumption.

So imagine how your neighbors feel about you; you've got faith. You are guided. Christians are a beautiful people in their own way. They are kind and helpful and revered throughout communities. With them as the most prominent people in America it is no wonder this country has gone so well. But has it gone so well? Our greed, that sin, destroyed the stability of the entire, innocent by comparison, world. I don't need to give you examples, you're looking at one and surrounded by others, cars or clothes, at all times.

Imagine how your neighbors feel about you and then watch the Simpsons. Take a look at calm and peaceful Flanders, prayerful with his two good little boys Rod and Todd. Springfield burns in the flames of hell outside and here are the Flanders safe and in prayer. That is all a satire. The world knows that if the streets are on fire, prayer won't save you. However, most tragedies have survivors, and some of them are the faithful. They recount how they should be dead but they lived because they had faith. Even though others with that same faith have been lay waste.

I know, grim. But that's kind of how I express any thought I have, so...  
If you ask a lot of people you meet at work, in like a restaurant, or even at a college social gathering, if you ask them about religion they'll say, "It's kind of culty." Really, I overheard that just the other day. The times have changed. I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, maybe you've heard it, but God is dead.

Religion, however, is very much alive and kicking. Keeping its flock safe from the wolves. There is a wall built around you. These walls are churches, summer camps, private schools, bible studies and prayer circles. Inside these walls the wolves do not wander (too often). A sign on a church reads "Jesus welcomes all, come on in," unless you're gay or progressively minded in any sort of way. And the sign is not important at all.

It can't be real; this god with the magic touch. Or maybe it can. But the perception of his will is 2000 years outdated. The Vatican did such a good job of ensuring the churches longevity that now it's all locked into itself and intertwined. If he has a will it is viewed completely wrong. And there is no one willing to update the system. They let it get more and more ludicrous with time.

There is a way of knowledge, the occult way, in accordance with everything mankind has ever actually learned, or tried to learn about the world around them, outside of the book of absolute truth (Which sweetheart is not possible. Written by man? Could never happen.), that bible, and outside of science. Outside those two things, knowledge comes and goes based on its merit, value, and truth. Science is like that also; if only to a fault. You have to stay open to more. More waits outside the door.

Anything I know to be truth is based on astrology, circa 10,000 BC or so and ever since, based on Tarot circa 1400 AD or so, based on Native American beliefs, circa not dateable. Or palmistry, circa long ago and far way. I believe in that which has been reported by many sources the world over, the infinite, the astral, the ether. And I believe in my own realities. With a little skill one can create a mirror in reality to reflect the coming of a higher dimension. But hey that's just me. I believe most people don't give a damn your way or mine. I believe a good book is the highest standard of art. Music follows that. Then paintings. And so on. I believe pretty girls should do a little searching themselves and take a good look at their world from an outsiders perspective for a while.

Angel, I have spent so much time arguing with Christians. I have no idea why. It just happens naturally. Ya know why I think? Cuz I cant help it, and you girls always want more. Don't get me wrong, you're my favorite ever and most prominent in my mind always, but still...

I know how it ends. It's the easiest thing to predict ever. God always wins. Always has always willed. Just remember that you've got feelings for him. You love him. And probably Jesus too. LLLLOOOOVVVVEEEE.

I love our talks so much.

See you later Alligator.

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Crazy then/ Insane now/ Who knew?/ To think/ To feel/ Is nothing/ As it used to be/ I've been set free/ Regularity is nothing to me/ In the sky/ Is where I fly/ By and by/ Where there is no try/ There are two of me now/ Existing in different places somehow

Watch as time erases/ The world happens all at once

All is one/ All is at once

There are two of me now/ One of me is here at once/ One of me is anywhere else/ Right now I am where you are

That is a promise from where I are

One of me flies/ On the wind of mystery/ Finding this fabled Endsville/ The other me/ Simply writes poetry

13*13*13*13*13*13*13*13*13*13*13*13*13

One of me half asleep/ Meets a stranger face to face/ One me awakes from a vision/ Not from a dream

One me exploring everything/ Is curious why it resembles nothing/ One me at a desk/ Is sober and needs a shower

Together we can go anywhere/ Our favorite place is nowhere

Once we found Endsville/ There was nothing left/ There was nowhere left to go

One me will live/ Taking Endsville along/ The other will do much the same/ Taking Endsville to others

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Some Subliminal Refuge

South Dakota

It was difficult for Led to gauge exactly how he felt about what he was about to do. Clearly the course of action he was about to embark on was the culminating point of the past two years of his life. Two years he spent living and loving; building his life from the ground up, from nothing to something. Two years; long enough to achieve everything he had wished for himself and long enough to lose it.

Standing against the wall of a yellow lower middle class suburban house, of which he had been renting a basement apartment, he drank a tall can of malt liquor; about to change the oil in his truck; an old GMC, classic body style and everything. Mechanically the truck was in great shape for being twenty years old. Born the same year as Led himself. The front to back lines that contoured the truck's body were especially aesthetically pleasing to him. The truck was white, and in the newly returning sunshine it took on a whole new dimension to him. He had only known the truck since the onset of the past winter. A winter so bleak and so excruciatingly painful in every feasible way, he had always thought of that white paintjob as an ally to himself. Though the sky was gray, and had been gray for the entirety of his recent memories, the snow was always white, and throughout his winter strife he had allowed himself, with the help of the white paint, to become one with his surroundings. For five months he had not once felt any better about his life than he had about the weather.

The neighbors were coming and going, in out of their cars and their homes. There was a window by Led's ankles. Behind that window and lying asleep in the dark was his best friend Laser. After the cleaning job they had worked until 2 am the night before, and the drinking they had done afterward, and all the preparations they made when the day broke, Laser was getting some necessary rest before they departed on their journey. Led planned on doing the same as soon as he got his oil changed.

It was the first time he had performed this maintenance on the truck and found some joy in not having to jack up the vehicle to get underneath it. Using laundry detergent bottles to gather the oil, he spilled very little on the cardboard he set down for the purpose of keeping the harmful substance off the driveway. It was in the adding the new oil that he made a mess because in a fashion typical of himself, he forgot to pick up the funnel he knew he needed. He was a poor shot with the 5 quart jug and probably under filled the truck as a result. The cardboard was soaked in the toxin now. No problem, he stuffed the mess under a pile of junk carpet and sports equipment by the dingy garage. All of the paper towels he used to clean off the cardboard he threw in a trash bag along with the jugs of oil and the black hooded sweatshirt he had ruined. The trash bag was placed nonchalantly amongst the other trash bags that had piled up since the trash man stopped collecting for some unknown reason. The vise grips he used on the plug were left forgotten and soon to be abandoned in the driveway.

In the basement Laser was out like a light on the couch. Everything was in boxes, left alone to be loaded upon waking. Led collapsed on his futon mattress on the floor, still dirty from the ground. He would shower when he woke up an hour and a half later.

The note for his twenty-one year old land lady was already written and placed on the upstairs bathroom door. Thanking her for being so patient with them while they came home from work in the middle of the night, got drunk on whiskey or vodka, and proceeded to write acoustic songs and play them with passion at all the hours of the morning. Thanking her for being patient with the rent which was only being paid at sporadic intervals and still coming up short. Thanking her for tolerating the forbidden cigarette smoke all winter (though she complained on about 7 occasions). They would make sure to have the truck loaded and the house locked before she came home from work at three.

Earlier, while buying grinders in the mall, Laser's phone rang. It was Led's ex-girlfriend returning his phone call she had missed earlier. This day was supposed to be a day that it was not destined to be. And it can be said that it all happened this way because of the decision by Laser and Led to rob the clinics they were cleaning in for a few thousand dollars of pharmaceuticals.

They had been stealing since Monday and last night, Wednesday, while Laser was working in a different building, Led knew that the doctors had figured it all out. For one matter; he got to the building that had been leaving the cabinets unlocked two hours behind schedule because of absenteeism within the company. The business half of the clinic was shaped like a large box with two hallways going from one side to the other, with a laboratory in the center of it all. The unlocked cabinets were on either end of the laboratory. And this night there were two doctors staked out, one on either end of the box, stationed like centuries. Usually there was not a doctor in the place while cleaning at the normal time, and here were these two; two; hours later than ever before. Clearly not doing anything special, he observed. So Led didn't steal anything that night and while vacuuming, about to be finished, the furthest away of the doctors walks past him, right as he vacuumed the floor in front of the last cabinet open. On Monday all the cabinets had been left open and unlocked. They stole non narcotic pain pills from one cabinet and strong anti-psychotics from another. The next day only those two cabinets were left open. Having figured out that the pain pills were not worth it; Laser dropped the thievery and Led continued to take the anti-psychotics, discovering a new brand of panic pills that had not been there previously. Finally, on Wednesday night, only the psychological pill cabinet was open.

This Thursday was the start of a four day weekend the two had taken off to go visit the college town Led's ex who lived up in central Minnesota, a few hundred miles away, where he had lived for most of their relationship. His ex's name was Theresa and last November it had been her decision to end their relationship. They had been together for one year and seven months at that point and the absolute devastation Led experienced thereafter was comparable to nothing less than the fires of hell.

That girl, in Led's mind, was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Their relationship, once so grand and blissful, had deteriorated to a standard that Theresa was no longer willing to accept. Things were all good for him until one distinct event.

Led had moved into an apartment in St. Cloud, MN where he lived with an unfriendly female roommate for about eight months. It was a two bedroom and while his love was across town at college he spent most of his time alone and brooding; not knowing anybody to spend time with and not able or willing to communicate with his roommate. Only when his girlfriend visited him did he experience joy. And time went on like that for months until he convinced Laser to drive out and live in Minnesota.

When Laser arrived there was a period of breaking in. Led was working for a traveling carpet cleaning company and he was out on the road most of the week. Laser shared Led's bedroom and was left alone with the terrible roommate, who would give accusatory glances when someone walked through the room; she, however, never cleaned, or changed her cat's litter, and glared constantly. Laser, naturally, wanted to move out as soon as he had moved in. Led advised him to persevere; things would get better.

The situation did improve. When Led got evicted, oddly. The matter was over accumulated noise complaints and frequent visits from the police. It was only a stroke of luck that one of Led's coworker was in need of a sublease for his apartment. He signed a release of liability from the apartment where he was being evicted, Laser spilled black hair dye on the bedroom rug, and they moved out.

The new apartment was absolute bliss; four bedrooms and only $250 a month per person. It was in student housing for St. Cloud State University. And both Led and Laser's names were on the lease. Every neighbor was a college student and they never complained about the drunken noise and the loud rock music. The two even bought a drum set and a 1000 watt stereo system.

Laser was working with Led at this point; one of the older guys on the crew had gotten a DUI and that freed up a spot in the truck. They were making good money and seeing the country. Though, the upper Midwest is not the most exotic travel location, to them it was still new and exciting. Theresa moved into Led's room and Theresa's best friend got added to the lease and moved in as well. And when the crew member who had subleased the apartment found other employment they imported another friend, The Jadyn, to live in the forth bedroom and take the fourth and final seat in the crew truck.

Together they all lived in a state of perpetual bliss. Laser and The Jadyn roved the campus in search of parties and women. Led had his girl whom he treasured as if she were the manifestation of his life force. When the guys came home from a week on the road; the girls had always cleaned the house. There was always money to drink with and buy nice things. Money to shower Theresa with gifts, to pay her bills, or to take her out to eat. He bought a laptop computer to write his stories with, and a leather bag to carry it in. He bought clothes and furniture. It was a prosperous time for him. But this was not to last.

Led's two friends and roommates moved away home to the east coast, leaving Led feeling rather lonely. First one left, and then shortly after the other. The first of which was Laser. The day after The Jadyn left town, while Led was away on the road working, his pet emperor scorpion Merlot died. That was the event.

Merlot was there for the golden era, front to back; the very beginning, only days after Laser moved in, to the very end, days after his second friend had left. He loved that scorpion. He had bought an ultraviolet light that would cause Merlot to glow intense neon green. When they had a party in the apartment; Led would take out the black creature and put it in people's faces. There are few creatures more terrifying than a scorpion and he couldn't get enough of people's reactions. When he returned home from the road he put the withered creature into a large matchbox and in the pouring rain he walked down the street to the nearby park. On a hillside he dug a hole in the muddy earth with his bare hands and read this poem to Merlot's memory.

My scorpion/ So black or so neon green/ Know you meant so much to me/ Not just an arachnid/ But a piece of my soul/ I was so attached to you/ How did I let you go?/ You deserved better/ I hope you know/ Your death made me shudder/ Damn it, I will miss you so/ You were so loved/ My heart apologizes/ I apologize/ I fucked up/ I am sorry/ You were a part of me/ Know I am with you/ In the great unknown/ I died a little with you

A couple weeks later the carpet cleaning company he was with moved it's central location to the next state over and because of Theresa's schooling he could not relocate for the work. A period of unemployment followed. And that was the most blissful time he could remember sharing with his girl since the very beginning. They did not argue once. But money became tight and it was getting difficult to keep the refrigerator stocked, and, so, after a month he found new work.

Two jobs actually, one full time and the other 20 hours a week. Theresa maintained that he did not need two jobs, but he knew he had to get ahead on bills and that he needed to get Laser's abandoned car running again. He really had to work the two jobs; though later he certainly regretted it. From the laundromat where he did maintenance work, he would get out and go home for two hours before going to a boarding house for 'special' people to work the 12-7 overnight shift. It was in how he spent all the time he wasn't working sleeping that pushed Theresa too far.

Soon enough they were spending all their time together fighting. Arguing. Led did not know about what, Theresa probably did not either. She couldn't stand the way he needed her. The way he worried about his beloved lamb roaming among wolves. She hated the way he never wanted to go anywhere anymore. How his anxiety had trapped him indoors and more and more he was becoming her burden. Being the strong woman she was, she just said "no more". She was done with it.

The horror of the breaking up process affected him so deeply; he became unable to write a song about anything other than her. First she moved into the bedroom next door, where Laser once lived. Then she began to fool around with college boys at frat parties where Led would get kicked out of for trying to put a stop to it. Finally she got her own apartment across town. Tears fell to the floor. Blood spilled on his sheets. Depression was a crushing weight he bore on his shoulders day in and out at work. Until finally he moved into a stranger's basement in Sioux Falls, South Dakota to be close to Sophie; the friend that was responsible for his being in the Midwest in the first place. She was an old friend from Massachusetts, who moved back home to South Dakota when her boyfriend dumped her. And Led, fleeing a past robbery investigation on the east coast, moved in with her. There he lived until he met Theresa.

Still, in Sioux Falls, his quality of life was very low. The cost of the move drained his pockets almost immediately. It was these times that taught him how to starve. Depression never left his side. Thoughts of suicide were as common as the act of urinating. Friends on the phone pleaded with him to move home, for his own well being, but he could never leave the Midwest. Leaving meant that beyond the shadow of a doubt he would never see the love of his life again. He could never do that.

As a result, he spent a couple months in that basement apartment, using pillows to block out the sunshine and driving his truck around town from job site to job site. Going home, watching TV all night, sleeping and doing it all over again. Sophie's life was too busy too often; she could not usually fit in time with him. To support him the way he needed somebody to: emotionally, sympathetically, like a companion might.

Finally Laser came. Bringing with him the gift of relief. From loneliness, from boredom, from an existence that could scarcely be referred to as more than nothing. Laser had been traveling the country on buses, but when he got a DUI while visiting his sister in California, he needed a place to settle and pull himself together. It didn't take long for Laser to realize that Sioux Falls was not his kind of place. He had been partying like a rock star in Los Angeles and then he found himself in some Midwest hellhole. An industrial wasteland in the dead of winter with no club scene, no bar scene, and the lowest population of attractive girls anyone could find short of a prison. The dull depressing lifestyle was immediately too much for Laser to handle and no later than the first morning he woke up in that town was he ready to go home.

Laser also felt it was his duty to get Led the hell out of there. It was no way for anyone to live, Laser felt. And Led could not argue; knowing full well that his friend was correct. Originally the plan was to leave two weeks after their trip to Minnesota, and since Led really could not cope with leaving it all behind, and truly accepting his failure on all fronts, he had the intention of going to Minnesota and then staying in South Dakota while Laser went home to Mass. But after they had stolen the pills the plan changed.

"I'm not coming to Minnesota," said Led.

"You're not?!" said Theresa.

"No. Me and Laser are going home."

"You're what!?"

"I'm going back to Massachusetts. You shouldn't have dumped me."

"Ok. I guess," her voice lingering; soft and dumbfounded.

"Bye."

The significance of that conversation, to Led, was monumental. He had achieved the impossible. He had learned to let go. Well, maybe he hadn't. The drugs he was on made it impossible to care; impossible to feel or to think. He was numb. Everything was alright. Even Laser was shocked by overhearing the way he had handled that conversation and congratulations were exchanged for the occasion. Because of these drugs; the girl for who Led would allow himself to sit and rot and bleed and tear for, suddenly meant nothing. On these drugs he was able to get over her. Or at least break himself free of the chains she had wrapped around his soul.

That is not to say that he wasn't aware of how wrong what he was doing felt deep inside of him. It was not his style. If Laser hadn't shown up he would have allowed himself to rot in that basement forever over that one girl. But he couldn't argue with Laser's logic. It just wasn't healthy. And like modern psychological practices, the problem was solved with drugs - Seroquel - and therapy - talking with Laser. Laser just knew what was best, in his own indirect way. Because Laser's primary motivation was always to just get out of South Dakota. By any means necessary; even a certain understated manipulation.

The whole operation was done at the last minute. The call to leave town was not made until halfway through the last night of work at their job. After Led had seen those two doctors.

As of the moment he knew he would be leaving, and every moment after, Led could only think that the impending situation must be because of the drugs. It was so uncharacteristic of him to abandon something he had worked so hard to achieve. He was aware of this and he didn't care.

Led's alarm clock screeched and lying on the black futon, his tired eyes opened; he threw an arm out and slapped the button to kill the noise. The gray alarm clock had red digital numbers; a crack ran through the casing from some foreplay with Theresa that had gone awry to the detriment of her spine and the alarm clock both. He'd slept an hour and a half. For a moment the ceiling was unsteady in his eyes as he looked up at it. Shaking off the grogginess; he jumped out of the futon, wrapping the chord around the clock and dropping it into a box with an open top.

A towel, the t-shirt and jeans outfit he left unpacked, one bottle of body wash and a loofa. It was a quick shower and then he woke up Laser.

"Get up motherfucker!" and he nudged the leg under the blanket. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

This was the fifth time he had moved in the last two years. After moving the same things, that often and for so many times, the process was refined to the epitome of efficiency. One single load in the bed of the truck was his possessions. A box of books and Buddha figurines. A box of personal things: photo album, sketch book, various journals, any number of little trinkets or relevant junk. Kitchen items box. DVD box. All his posters got rolled up into the tapestries, from the largest tapestry to the smallest print, wrap some rubber bands around it. His cherished black and red lighting equipment. Guitar amplifier. That street cone that got decorated in marker when times were good. Clothes, suitcase this, box that. They brought a pillow in the cab with them.

"Led. You are probably going to hit this huge nor'easter. Wait one more day."

"Ma. I'm already packed. I'll be fine. I drive fine in the snow."

"Well be careful. Ok?"

"Yeah. Ok. I gotta go. I love you."

"I love you too."

Led was standing next to the truck parked on the street directly in front of the house. He wore all black except for his blue jeans; black button up unbuttoned over a black t-shirt, and black sunglasses. The sun shined bright overhead and the weather was a warm 45 degrees.

Laser came out of the house with his silver electric guitar in his hand.

"Here." And he handed Laser his cell back. "My mom told me we're going to hit a nor'easter."

"Really?" said Laser with sarcastic disbelief, as if that just figured.

"Yeah."

"Should we wait to leave?"

"I don't know. I don't really think I care whether it's snowing or not. It's not like I'm going to crash even if it is."

"Yeah. I don't think we give a shit about that kind of thing."

"Me neither. Is that everything?"

"Yeah."

"Then let's get the fuck out of here. I'm going to go lock up."

Led went into the house and gave it a look over to see if anything had been forgotten. But nothing had. He made sure the note was on the bathroom mirror and walked out the front. Locking the door behind him and throwing the key under the mat. He stood on the stoop and looked left up the street and saw the children playing outside at the elementary school, to the right more houses and an intersection of suburban streets. 'Fuck this,' he thought.

This would be the last place in the Midwest he would ever live in. It seemed typical; this neighborhood of wasted life; ugly houses, ugly people, and ugly emotions. Laser stood leaning against the bed of the truck smoking his cigarette, all of their combined possessions stacked carefully and skillfully in the back. Led lit himself a cigarette and walked around to the driver's seat.

He started the truck and Laser was sitting shotgun getting organized with the CD's, the pillow, and his jacket.

"Good fucking riddance," said Led as he pulled away from the yard.

Driving through town he got one final look. Exactly two years ago to the week, this was this city that Led took refuge in from his life on the East Coast; a life that he had sworn time and time again that he would never return to and he reflected on that vow as he glimpsed from a bridge the downtown area. Two years ago this city was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. The expanses of prairie he saw driving into town on every highway. The dry air, and everything was so new; new gas stations, new restaurants, legal indoor smoking. But now, it was ugly. He longed for the foliage of New England. He thought about the craggy cliffs he would be climbing stoned with his friends. All the beautiful rivers that flow through the hollows of past glaciers. The trees. He used to feel the trees were trapping him, keeping him caged like an animal, but he appreciated them then. He knew he would be able to hide in them. The trees would keep him safe. Oh, how time will change the point of view. Once so full of possibility the Midwest had exhausted its energy and had nothing left to offer but pain, the pain of proximity; proximity to the worst experience of his life. The loss of everything he had worked so hard to make great. So much hard work for nothing. A failure. Alas, he had survived the season of death, and now in the first week of spring, a time of rebirth, he was doing what he knew had to be done.

At the gas station in the date night district of town, with the movie theater and the ice cream shops and the restaurants, Led filled up the tanks and watched Laser go inside to get cigarettes and caffeine drinks. The gas station was a larger one with about 12 different lanes and two pumps at each. An attractive girl in tight light blue jeans with auburn hair down to her back walked in behind Laser.

Led finished filling the right tank and moved the truck over to fill up the left. The attractive girl came out smiling and laughing to herself, and it was obvious that Laser was behind her new found amusement.

In the truck, "Were you macking it to that girl in there?"

"Yup."

"What did you say?"

"Oh. She was like, 'I like your tattoos.' And I was like, 'I like your eyes.' She wanted it."

"Sweet."

"Here." Laser handed him a 24 oz energy drink.

As soon as they got on the highway headed into MN from SD, Led cracked the drink and used it to swallow two caffeine pills. It was about 4:30 when they crossed into MN. And in the bed of the truck the blanket wrapped around the guitar had come loose and Laser's guitar was exposed to the cold wind.

"Pull over man. I gotta fix that."

"We're on the highway."

"Just do it."

Led pulled over and Laser placed his beer can on the dashboard and got out to reset the blanket wrapped around the two guitars, one in a case and one not. It was all risky business moving those guitars in that way; they knew guitars are vulnerable to warping when left in cold weather.

Jumping back in the truck, Led said, "It's fucking freezing out there."

The temperature had dropped rather quickly and the wind had picked up. Driving down the highway through the prairie, the gusts were rocking the truck and making it difficult to stay in the lane. Led lit a black and mild cigar and took a swig from his energy drink and then returned his attention to the road. He and Laser were talking about music. Various bands and their best qualities and also, what they would one day do with their own band. Who would be on what instrument and what each sound would resemble; Rage vocals and Deftone guitars, a hard and fast rhythm section. A conversation they had had many times, but until it came to pass there was really nothing there to be done except have the conversation over and over.

All things considered Led was feeling relatively good about the move. Mostly he was happy to be on the road. He wasn't so much looking forward to being back in his hometown in Massachusetts. But he had about another 1350 miles to come to terms with that. Nothing ever really felt as good as being on the road. There was freedom in it and as a rule of thumb anything involving freedom was incredibly appealing to him. And it wasn't everyday he got to have this much time with nothing to do but drive.

Minnesota

With minimal stopping the two planned on making the trip in about 28 hours. A delay was to be expected knowing that they were heading into a snow storm. By their logic, with no delays, they would be home in time for dinner the next night, and with delays they should be home in time to go out with their friends for St. Patrick's Day at the bars. Led would use a friends ID to get in, not being 21 yet.

The sun was setting around midway through Minnesota. The trucks headlights were becoming more visible on the road in front of them. Underneath the shrieking electric guitars blasting through the old truck's crackling vintage speakers, the engine revved and waned under the control of the cruise control and the tires roared across the pavement. The highway in this part of the country was rather silent. Nobody lived out here but farmers and they were all tucked away on their respective properties, eating dinner or finishing up some last minute chores. Sometimes Led would click off the high beams out of courtesy to those heading towards them. More than likely they too were traveling some great distance for whatever unclear or clear reason, but perhaps not.

The two friends would chat about whatever for however long and then drift into periods of silence again. Eventually Laser put a pillow against the passenger door to sleep a little before it was his turn to drive.

"We got a quarter left on this tank, and the other ones full. When the second one runs out we'll switch," said Led.

"That's cool," said Laser, not opening his eyes.

Led changed the music to something that only he really liked hearing, taking the opportunity to listen to it in peace without Laser saying anything. He shifted in the seat to get comfortable. And then he stared at the road.

It was a cloudy night and therefore there was not much by way of light to illuminate the plains around him. He lit a cigarette and cracked the window. He checked the heat to make sure the comfort level was optimal. Then he flicked the switch in the center of the forward metal paneling, changing from the left to right fuel tank. And they moved across the great American landscape at 75 miles an hour.

He listened to the lyrics in the music. A song by a heartbroken guy; about cutting himself over the girl for whom he felt that pain. Lyrics Led related to all too well, all too deeply. But not this night. Not these days. These days he felt nothing. Nothing but the strong anti-psychotics, making his eyes lethargic this evening.

He reached into his computer bag and felt around for the caffeine pills among the Seroquel, the St. John's wart, the muscle relaxants, and the Niravam. Driving with his knee he shook a single pill into his palm and swallowed it.

The pill sunk into his stomach and there was a short while before he felt the lift as the drug rushed through his blood-stream, increasing his heart rate and stimulating his lazy mind. The sensation was a rush. Nothing intense, just noticeable. He almost immediately thereafter began to daydream.

He knew how much easier it will be to pick up girls when he got home. Thoughts of promiscuous nights at the bar with even more promiscuous after parties filled his mind. Getting laid had been very tricky in Sioux Falls. Social situations rarely led to sex and the internet became the best way to find a partner. But in Massachusetts, women came more regularly and he thought about how he longed for sex.

More so than a lay, he could use a woman. A woman in his life to keep him grounded. Something real amidst all his delusions. Somebody that would push his ex out of his mind for good. Somebody to love.

.....................................

It's been so long since I have loved. They say I am supposed to love myself before I can love anyone else. I am not sure as to what exactly that means. Does that mean I should hold myself in the same regard as a lover? Because that's creepy, I'm sure it's not that literal. Still. I have never loved myself before, and considering I don't really understand the concept, should I really hold off on loving again until the epiphany comes? One moment, out of the blue, "Oh. Wow. I love myself. I have to find a girl. Now!" Ya know?

Not to say that I shouldn't love myself. Sounds like a great idea. But I'm not going to push away my desire to love to heed a stranger's cliché advice. If I had known the first time I had my heart broken that all it took to feel better was finding another person to love, I would have done it a lot quicker. Lesson learned.

Here, the second time around I am all over that shit. Love? Where you at? You can run but you can't hide. I'll sniff you out. I can spot you in a crowd. The one face made of flesh as opposed to the card board whores all around you. I am not interested in fucking the mold. Those girls pressed in Abercrombie, brain dead from television, public education, and popularity. The materialists in a material world. The illiterate college girls. The bar sluts. I don't need any of that shit.

I can tell the worth of a girl in two questions. What is your name? And when is your birthday? The second question nixes about 80% of the undesirables right off the bat, because god forbid you catch them off guard. They don't know how to react and they will take their leave of you for you. Great. And at the same time, you are learning their sign. Most every girl I ever meet is a Pisces. That is not something I want to get into. But taking into account the alienating of a strong majority of carnal interests with a simple mention of astrology, so to determine their intellectual capacity in relation with its inherent significance to the realm of physical sexual chemistry; I just don't even try with those girls anymore. I know what will not work. I know what will work.

The remainder is up for debate. Personally, I like earth signs, Capricorns, Taurus's, and Virgos. Also I like Leos, because they are all crazy like me. Everyone should try and observe their compatibility within the realm of astrology. I have noticed that astrology really applies to the single individual, and applies less to couples, but it still applies some, so if you take the time to learn it, and understand it, you can use it.

Even though I have a thing for earth signs; I could use a change of pace in my life. Because each sign is bringing something new to the table and variety is the spice of life. Even if you are a serial monogamist. I want a Scorpio. One that reminds me of Merlot. A girl who shows me that the world isn't truly the ugly place I have come to know, but rather a beautiful place with a lot of ugliness strewn about it. Ugliness that is easily ignored when you've got a beautiful Scorpio to gaze upon.

A lion and a scorpion. How bad ass would that be? The two most dangerous creatures of the zodiac. In love? Intense.

Maybe we'll actually have things in common. Maybe she'll be just like me. Theresa and I really had nothing in common. I so need a girl I can relate to. Give me a druggy. A hippy. A chronic depressive with schizotypal personality disorder, if you've got one. Give me a girl that would enjoy drinking blood as much as I would.

Give me a saving grace. Someone who shows me that it's all ok after all. Give me a girl that won't mind if my parents are kicking me out every two days and I'm spending most nights in my truck. Give me a girl who doesn't give a fuck. One as disillusioned as I.

Give me a girl version of me. One so alike me; we both find it creepy. How great would that be?

................................................

There was a gas station off of an exit. It looked familiar from the time Led spent traveling for work.

"Yo. Laser? Look familiar?" he said pointing at it.

Laser picked his head up. "I guess. I don't know."

"I swear we've seen every god damned gas station in the Midwest at one point or another."

Led pulled in and up to the pump.

"I'm gunna get some beer and then you'll drive."

When they went in, there was a tall scrubby man, with thick glasses and thinning blond hair which looked dirty working the counter, he had a bass fishing t-shirt on, which also looked dirty. Led told the clerk that he needed to go fill both tanks, so he'd be using two different pumps.

"There's no beer here," Laser reported.

"No beer?" he asked to Laser before asking the clerk, "You don't have beer in gas stations here?"

"No. Not in Minnesota. You'll have to try Wisconsin for that. But you'll have to get there before midnight."

It was 11:35.

"How far is Wisconsin?"

"'Bout 4 exits up the highway. Take exit two, and go to the Super-Stop."

They decided to not fill up at this place; there was enough gas in the truck to make it another four exits. So they got in the truck and hauled ass; going about 85 around a geographically unusual, windy, stretch of highway. Watching the digital clock, and wondering when they would see the "Now Entering Wisconsin" sign. And it wasn't long.

Wisconsin

The exit took them into La Crosse, WI on a confusing stretch of some route barricaded on both sides, with stop lights that didn't seem aimed in any particular direction. The Super-Stop had a sign in the distance and they had to pass it before they could find a left turn to go up the other side of the road.

Led gave Laser the credit card to get $20 out of the ATM for beer. Laser returned with two 24 ounce cans of light beer, handing one to Led and throwing his in the bed of the truck, he had gotten an energy drink for himself while he was driving.

Led filled up the one tank and moved the truck to the opposite side to fill up the other. When he was done he got in the passenger seat and Laser took over the driving. Leaving the gas station they took the barricaded route back to the highway and Led cracked his beer.

After about twenty minutes it seemed like the road before them was teaming with bugs. After a while Led realized what it really was.

"It's snowing man."

"I noticed. You think this is the Nor'easter?"

"It seems a little too soon for that. Right? There are no Nor'easters in the Midwest. They'd be midwester's."

But the snow got thicker. Falling heavier but not accumulating on the road.

"Our shit's gunna get fucked man." Said Laser.

"Yeah, I know."

Soon the snow did begin to accumulate on the road.

"Turn off the cruise control man. If that thing revs at the wrong moment, we're going in the ditch."

It was only 5 minutes later, as they cautiously watched the road that the snow began to thin. The air cleared as they pressed forward and soon it was no longer snowing. Winding through only another few miles of hills before breaking back out into northern prairies.

Led drank his beer and they moved silently through the night. Thinking thoughts or not. Just going. Passing billboards proudly promoting the cheesy products of the great cheese state. How cheesy, Led thought.

When the beer was done, it was his time to try and get some sleep. He propped the pillow against the window and rested his head on it. He threw his black over shirt over himself to create total darkness. In his own mind he knew he would not get any sleep. Never has he been able to fall asleep sitting up in a vehicle. But it seemed like trying was the right thing to do. He had gotten so little sleep before they left home, and it seemed like he could sleep, by all logic and reason he should be exhausted, except the caffeine was still in him keeping him alert. He had been hoping the beer would counteract that, but it did not.

He was more resting than anything else. Riding in silence as Laser fiddled with the CD's, smoked cigarettes, and nursed his energy drink.

The caffeine pill sank into Laser's stomach and there was a short while before he felt the lift as the drug rushed through his blood-stream, increasing his heart rate and stimulating his lazy mind. The sensation was a rush. Nothing intense, just noticeable. And he almost immediately thereafter began to daydream.

In the past month Laser had gone across the country on a bus, to see his sister in California, taken a plane back and gotten stuck at JFK airport in a blizzard, and taken a bus out to SD. That right there was about 7500 mile, add this trip onto the tally and he will have traveled 9000 miles in the single month. He felt taxed. The thought of home, and being stationary to him was very appealing at this point.

It was the opposite thought that had driven him west in the first place. But after getting arrested in LA, returning to Mass where he encountered an overwhelming anxiety and dread about being home, fleeing the feeling to SD, where he starved and got drunk with his suicidal friend, he had gained a certain perspective about what being home actually meant. This time, going home with his long lost best friend in tote, seemed like the most appealing course of action. Desperately needing to recharge his batteries. He needed to set up a life for himself. Something stable, and worthwhile. Too long he had been following his will of the wisp ideas and ideals as to what the next best move was; the next way to keep his life as exciting as it had been for all those years past. But he couldn't help feeling that this was all catching up to him. The dui had submerged him in such a period of reflection he came out the other side with a newfound sense of responsibility. He was 21 now, and like it or not, the days of being a carefree youth were at their end. The realization pained him, but he gritted his teeth, took the jolt, and made up his mind to do what had to be done, even at the cost of his cherished carefree lifestyle.

....................................

Where the fuck was I, in all actuality? I don't solely refer to my physical surroundings but also my mental and spiritual realms. I was trapped somewhere between who I was, and the anticipated person I was to become. The time zones were blowing by my eyes like a hurricane of confusion, and anything I had ever known of myself, had been sucked dry by the storm. I knew that I needed to sleep, but sleep was no option. I saw the long dead fields of the Midwest, and thought of the heat and the palm trees that had been only a few weeks ago. I thought of driving with my friend into the night and that somehow everything would just engulf into an ocean of stardust that would bring the clarity that was always avoiding us, lurking in the shadows, just out of reach. The stars and the sky were to become the highway in front of us, and there would be no final destination, just an oblivion of celestial nonsense, and that's all that I desired. To watch as all of space and time, would pass under the wheels beneath me, and to view the entire universe meet its end. I wanted more chaos, but I knew that my person could handle no more, no more travels, no more delirious nights, just sanctuary. It was then that I realized that this delusion of some subliminal refuge, in fact, did not exist. So instead of progressing onward, I let myself die inside, I guess I took the easy way out, but what else could I do?

......................................

Led pulled his baggy black over shirt from his head and sat up. "I ain't gunna fuckin' sleep. I don't know who I'm kidding."

"Hey. I'll take Chicago, but you're taking New York."

"Yeah. That's cool. How much Wisconsin you think is left?"
"Madison is about 45 miles, and then, what, like 200 to Chicago?"

"Yeah. That seems right."

More knowledge of the upper Midwest left over from their traveling job. Twice a week for months they would make the trek out to this area from where they were living in Minnesota. This area, or the North Woods, North Dakota nowhere, South Dakota nothingness, Iowa void in space and time, boring old Green Bay. Ten hour drives in every direction, stopping at every Mormon Church in the area; cleaning the carpets, and moving on to the next one.

Madison Wisconsin was exciting though. Madison was the best time out on the road Led, Laser, or the third member of the crew, The Jadyn, had ever had. The Jadyn was a friend of theirs who's id Led would use to get served in bars. Madison, was insanity, the capitol of Wisconsin, a college town, and altogether a very liberal atmosphere. There were underground anti-establishment theatrics, better than any play any of them had seen before. So many places to drink, and so much drinking to be done. The whole town is centered around the capitol standing tall in the middle, well lit, ominous in a good way, and then it was square after square of streets full of drunk people. They could never quite figure out why everyone else was as drunk as them on Wednesday nights in mid May; they chalked it up to college towns. Over two weeks, while making it to work every day, they had been kicked out of three establishments for drinking their own beer and being underage, chased tail around, almost got maced (Led), almost got the shit kicked out of them for hitting on someone's girlfriend (Led), got their Mormon boss to start drinking again after 16 years of sobriety, and to cap it all off, of course, Led got arrested. The obvious conclusion to a drinking binge. For public intoxication and resisting arrest.

Led had fallen from some construction type platform that The Jadyn had told him to climb. And he fell right in front of a cop. The police noticed and proceeded to apprehend him, at which point he tried taking off down the street at a quick hustle, they ran after him and he struggled some as they cuffed him. Later his friends would say he was fighting them. Placed in the car, his friends talked the nice lady cop into letting him go into their custody, but when she went back to the car he was in a fit of threatening belligerence and the police proclaimed him not going anywhere. They took him to de-tox, and in the car he calmed a little, but only enough to ask the girl cops out on dates. And as soon as they took him out of the car he was back to fighting again, using one cop for leverage to jump up and kick the other. The recollection he carried around was nothing more than big, black, blurred, and distorted faces in white scrubs wrestling him into a bed and strapping him face down into the four point restraints, and then proceeding to chew at the straps until he was given a shot in his ass that made him stop chewing. Waking up the next day, it took him a moment to realize where he was. It came back to him slowly, and then he remembered being arrested, the ride, the fights, and the shot. No longer tied up, and still fully clothed, he went through a door and into a hallway where the people seemed to know him. He found a woman at a desk, and she said, "Good morning. Are you ready to go to jail?"

There on that highway in the middle of the night he looked out over Madison. The capitol, strong and illuminated, was prominent over the city. Led did not like the feeling it gave him. For some reason he knew with absolute certainty that he would never get to see that city again. He wondered if Laser got the same feeling, but he said nothing and soon he was turning his head further and further to get a look until Madison Wisconsin drifted away into the pages of his own personal history book.

Cigarettes and loud music. Turn it down for conversation. Stop for beer, energy drinks, slim jims, a couple 3 day old breakfast sandwiches. Keep moving. Truckers from behind barreling past, trying to get their loads where they are going. The two assumed it was always Poughkeepsie. Their headlights would pop up in the rearview from nowhere, and Laser flicked the mirror to dull their intensity. Soon the lights reflected on the dash and then they were shining into the truck. The earth rumbled and they moved along but the steel monsters moved quicker, ignoring the duo as they rolled off and into the night. Soon the giant trucks were nothing but some red dots on the horizon, and soon after that there were no lights in sight other than their own headlights.

The dull roar of the engine forfeited precedent to the rock music playing medium loud through the speakers. The kind of volume that could be spoken over, but not without shouting a little. At that hour neither had very much to say. The clock crept up on 3 o'clock as they found the Illinois boarder. The roads were still dark and still empty, but less empty than before. Led wondered which of these people that were passing them were going to Chicago.

Illinois

Before long it became evident that Chicago was just a short ways away. The road widened, added a lane, and traffic thickened by small increments. Street lights made their first appearance on the journey. In Illinois, the exit signs had no numbers; only words. And staring at the hand written directions, Led became nervous. All the moves relied on exit numbers; they had names, Dan Ryan expressway. Without numbers, he would have to keep an eye on every sign.

"What the fuck is wrong with Illinois man?" asked Led. "Look at these signs. They're all decrepit and dingy, and they've got no fucking numbers. You know how easy it'll be to miss a turn?"

"I remember all this from the last time I did it with J-Mac. The directions show to take all these different exits and shit, but in the end it's all just straight through."

There were rest stops. Extravagant ones with walk ways crossing over the highway. After driving past the first one, they decided they would stop at the next one and get food. That was about another twenty miles. Led went in to get the food and Laser stayed outside to guard their truck full of belongings.

Through the sliding glass door there was a myriad of closed fast food joints with gates pulled down over their windows. The only place open was McDonalds in the back. When Led ordered burgers they told him that they were only serving the breakfast menu. He ordered breakfast sandwiches, breakfast burritos, hash browns, and orange juices.

The truck was resting while they ate. This was the first time the engine has been turned off for more than ten minutes since they left the day before. After a 25 minute stop, they got back on the road.

The roads widened. Construction cones were everywhere and the highway rose above the ground. Now they were looking out over the industrial aspects of any major city. Fields of electrical grids. Fields of oil tanks. Water treatment facilities. Then the billboards started; buy this car, no, buy this car, shop at this furniture outlet, no, shop at this furniture outlet. Factory outlets with enormous parking lots and even bigger neon signs. The traffic poured onto the highway from the exits like acid from a pitcher. Under pass after under pass.

The skyline came into view. The Sears Tower was always so recognizable. Led stared at it. Laser drove. The highway dipped and rose. The flow of traffic quickened its pace and the truck hopped to and fro on its shocks. They went through a tunnel and came out on an overpass with a highway running below it. The skyline came closer and closer. Soon Led was looking up at it.

"Who does this, man?" asked Laser. "What do you think anybody we know is doing right now?"

"Probably sleeping."

"Exactly. That's fucking Chicago man! Nobody can ever say again that we haven't driven through Chicago."

"That's true. But where the fuck is the Dan Ryan expressway?"

"I really think we're on it."

Led was struck by this city. He had been to New York, and Boston, and the Twin Cities. But he wasn't at any of those places right now. Right now, he was in Chicago. Neon lights were everywhere and the highway felt like they were carving through those lights, like a hot knife through butter. Nothing in particular stuck out. Save for the ice. Much of the Sears Tower was coated in ice. At least it looked that way to him. The highway rose more. Narrowed. And then they were 60 feet above the seeming ground level.

"We just passed Indiana toll rd. We're supposed to get on that after the Dan Ryan. So why wouldn't we just get on it here?"

"What the fuck is going on with these lanes?" Laser said, looking all around to gauge his presence in the traffic. The truck hopped up and down, rising and falling with the road. They came too close to the barricades and then moved away. He was driving in and out of lanes. He cut someone off and they honked.

"Just get behind this box truck up here," Led said.

Signaling into the slow lane he got up close to a white box truck's tailgate. It had an Indiana license plate.

"Dan Ryan! Right up here." And in actuality the road became the Dan Ryan expressway on its own accord. There was really no exiting involved, contrary to the directions they had. Soon enough the road widened again and they were able to get out from behind the box truck. While passing it, Laser honked the horn and Led gave the bald Hispanic man driving a thumbs up. The man in return gives them a perplexed look.

Indiana

It was 4:30 am when they rolled across the Indiana border taking their ticket from the toll station.

"You ready to switch?" asked Led.

"Yeah, I'll stop at the next gas station."

At the next gas station, Led filled up both the tanks. He bought a double shot of espresso in a can, a heavily caffeinated soda, and strawberry flavored vitamin water. Laser ran off to take a piss, but was gone for the duration of the stop. Only as Led was getting behind the wheel did Laser appear around the corner of the building.

"What the hell were you doing?"

"There was pinball at that strip mall back there."

"Oh, here's your water."

Led dug around in the laptop bag in the middle until he came out with the bottle of caffeine pills. He shook one out into his palm and threw the bottle up on the dash. He swallowed the pill with his espresso shots and started the truck.

As they entered back onto the toll way there was moderate traffic. Led got up to the speed limit and stayed in the slow lane behind an eighteen wheeler going the same speed. The black sky was showing the first signs of day. Slowly becoming navy blue. He clicked on the cruise control and lit a black and mild.

They were in the thick of the journey at this point; in only a few hours they would be at the halfway point. As the caffeine rushed through Led's blood he pulled heavily on a cigarette. Heading east they could see the sun rise. When there was enough light they could take in their surroundings. The landscape was reminiscent of many other places in the Midwest, but whereas they had been mainly in the upper Midwest, Indiana reflected more the central Midwest.

In the distance to the left a red sedan was driving and kicking up cold dust from a dirt road. Led watched it move. Straight, flat, going, but almost standing still, so far away there was no sense of relative motion. He remembered the first time he saw a car do that; the first time he had watched a car drive in the distance. It was out of the window of a bus heading west. Almost two years ago to the day. He remembered it used to amaze him. He had never seen anything like that; the New England terrain was far too hilly and winding to allow such visibility at such distance. Now the car was a sad reminder. What was once new was old. Yet he looked to the future, what was once old was about to be new again. Drifting across these wide open spaces, drifting through life, he felt like that red car, always moving, almost standing, kicking up dust, and eventually getting where he was going.

He could not help feeling empty. Going home? How could he go home? He remembered clearly leaving home. Leaving home with the sole purpose of never returning. He failed at that task and felt defeated by himself and by the world. If all life had in store for him was such tragedy, how would he ever bring himself to feel a sense of purpose again. The greater the dream, the harsher reality will feel upon awakening. The greater the goal, the greater the defeat. For so much gained was only so much to lose.

Once again he looked to a new horizon. The sun does rise. The vernal equinox was only a few days away. A time of rebirth. A time to cut his losses and move forward naturally. And down this stretch of Indiana highway moving forward was exactly what he was doing. As always he would do his best to ignore the rest of it. Midwest, East coast, in between, what did it all mean? The pressure of living up to his expectations for himself was always too much to bear. Too much. Too much. Too much. Too much to bear. Was moving forward really what he wanted? He knew that he was happier standing still. Also there was the nagging notion that by moving home he could never be moving forward, at least not to himself, because to him, home would always be the past, something he left behind him. And in that sense he was discontented with this move. Because if moving forward was only bringing him someplace he had already been, wouldn't that mean he was going in circles?

And so he found himself left with the task of making the best out of a bad situation. There were many things waiting for him on the bright side. How many good friends had he left behind? How many more beautiful places were there for him to spend his time? The beach, the cliffs, the river pools and water falls. All the activities waiting to occupy his time; house parties, bon fires, bars, clubs; he'd be 21 soon enough. And in the mean time there were the drugs. That whole region was saturated with illegal substances; narcotics, amphetamines, pharmaceuticals, hallucinogens, marijuana. Led had been sober for so long and he was thoroughly looking forward to abusing all those things again. Killing the pain in a new way every day. As he had already begun again.

No more nights in a basement, alone, with nothing to look forward to. Maybe his life might find some meaning after all. At least there was hope. Before there was no hope. Only stale pain.

Daylight had spread across the Indiana landscape. The grassy dunes running into the distance like they were a wall. Bare trees with thin creeping branches ran alongside the road in scattered bunches.

There were overpasses, and these overpasses were another thing that used to amaze Led. Since the ground everywhere in the Midwest is so flat, save for dunes and land formations of that nature, in order to make one road rise over another, massive piles of dirt were placed on either side of the road to be crossed and a bridge was built between the mounds. He mostly liked the way it felt while driving over them. Going down a flat road then up, over the other road, and down again.

"Just stop right here man," said Laser.

"No. I'll find an exit. Just fricken' hold it."

"I fucking can't! Hurry up!"

"Here. A mile and a half, alright?"

They took the next exit and paid the toll. This was a typical Midwestern town in late winter. Barren; the dead grass adding a depressing essence to the main road running through the emptiness. The establishments were scarce. There was a closed, possibly condemned, auto shop and junkyard right at the end of the exit's off-ramp, and the only two visible places with a public restroom were a three story hotel to the right, and on the opposite side, a small market that had an ethnic appearance, Middle Eastern garb was displayed in the windows. Led pulled into the market.

While Laser went to use the bathroom, Led checked his oil. What he found was disconcerting. The green residue burned to the dipstick was of some worry to him, but more unnerving was the white milky substance strewn about over it in globs. He wiped it off and dipped it again, pulling it out he found more milky white goo. He sighed and placed it back in. He watched Laser come out and walk around the side of the building and unzip.

When Laser was done he came back to the truck and said, "No public restroom."

"Look at this," said Led, pulling out the dipstick and showing it to him.

"That does not look good," Laser said with emphasis.

"What is it?"

"Water in your oil."

"Oooooh. Uh-huh. Let's just get back on the road. Shall we?"

Nervously, they made good time across northern Indiana and around 10:45 they paid the final toll and got into Ohio. A short while later, Led pulled the Ohio toll ticket from the machine and handed it to Laser.

"We're way past halfway now man."

"Do you want me to drive anytime?" Asked Laser.

"Maybe later. Like, you take the end of Ohio and Pennsylvania and I'll jump back in before New York."

"That's cool."

Ohio

Ohio was where the road finally caught up with them. Exhaustion set in. And boredom as well. The sun blazed hot through the window although the temperature outside was only 40 degrees. Daytime traffic was steady. And the cruise control was doing most of the driving except for when it occasionally malfunctioned and started dropping their cruising speed. When that happened, Led clicked it off and accelerated and decelerated manually for about ten minutes until it was ready to work properly again.

Fishing through his laptop bag he pulled out three bottles of pills and dropped them onto the seat between him and Laser. Only two were of importance. He emptied one anti-psychotic into his palm as he drove down the highway with his knee, and he swallowed it with a wad of saliva.

"Yo, can you find me a Niravam in there?" He asked Laser.

The Niravam were the pills for panic attacks. They came in sealed packages that read "Do not crush." The reason for that being that they were soft pills designed to dissolve on your tongue in order to be taken with quickness and without water. They have an orange flavor but the after taste was more similar to battery acid.

He emptied a caffeine pill into his hand and swallowed it. Laser handed him the Niravam and he pealed off the back of the wrapper exposing the little orange pill. He placed it to his tongue and discarded the wrapper. The pill rolled around inside of his mouth, disintegrating in the saliva.

He could feel his heart rate slow and he lit a cigarette. It almost seemed to him that the sun wasn't as bright as it was five minutes before.

A sign read Toledo, a mile and a quarter.

Laser was talking to his mother on the phone. Some sort of financial matter after he had already conveyed the progress they had made so far to her.

When he hung up, he said, "She says it's going to be the biggest storm they've had all year."

"That always happens."

"What? The weather only ever does anything when you need it not to?"

"Well, that. And the biggest storms always come at the end of winter out there."

But Laser was right. For instance, just the last time he was returning to Massachusetts on a flight from Los Angeles he was trapped, with no money, at JFK airport for 2 days while all flights had been grounded.

"And if this storm is bigger than that one, this might suck a little." Said Laser.

"Yeah. Just hope we get through Pennsylvania before it happens. That fucking thing's bigger than a Dakota."

"I know. That's the belly of the beast yo."

"Yup." Led agreed, knowingly, despairingly, gripping onto denial by his fingernails.

Reaching for the CD's, Laser says, "I know exactly what we need right now."

"Oh yeah?"

Tom Petty comes on through the speakers. The voice of the road. The voice of reason. The voice of truth. The voice of absolute tranquility. The voice of Ohio was the voice of a man from Indiana.

"Fucking yes, man." Led was astonished. He would have never thought of that in a dozen of these road trips but was completely aware that this was _the_ most perfect choice. He lit a black and mild cigar and got more comfortable in his seat.

As the music played, they passed a sign that read, to Cincinnati.

The truck pulled the two guys through Ohio. A land of awful vibes, Led once noticed; the first time he saw it on a bus. When he got out at a bus station in Cleveland for a layover. Everything was so brown, so dull, truly, unbelievably so little to offer, it was striking. The land mass was not interesting. It could have been New England if there wasn't so much space. It could be called the Midwest if one felt like reaching. It was really only the Midwest because you can't call it the east coast. True, there was a great lake above it, but couldn't that be said about New York too? And you wouldn't call New York the Midwest. The streets were scarcely populated and the only people he did see, he recalled, were people he would not care to associate with. Nothing interesting happened, not like in Chicago where he played music for appreciative bums and bought 90 dollars of fake acid from a very smooth talking young black gentleman. He had never met anyone from Ohio, not even on the internet. He thought that that one Gothic musician came from Ohio, but he couldn't even be sure of that.

And there were incredibly long stretches of road. At least that's what he noticed soon after he passed a sign for Cleveland. Toledo, Cincinnati, Cleveland, how many fucking towns were in Ohio anyway?

Running down a dream. That fucking song rocks.

Sandusky; this fucking state sucks.

Tom Petty's greatest hits came to an end.

"I think I just realized I haven't really slept much."  
"Oh yeah."

"Yeah. Everything seems really big right now. The sky, the view. And the road, and these overpasses we drive under. I feel really fricking small. And, like, removed at the same time. Distant." Led said, distantly.

"Do you want me to drive?"

"No." Led chuckled have under his breath. Then he said, "I'm actually very alert. Is the funny part."

A cigarette became significant again. No longer in the background, the presence and effect of a cigarette became a precious gift. This all of course, being after the Niravam wore off.

A sign read To Columbus.

The sky ahead was becoming bleak. Not quite overcast yet. Though it would be soon; this could not be called that. It was almost as if everything that should be blue in the sky had moved a shade closer to gray. The connection was there.

Another stretch of Ohio road. At night these stretches of road, the ones in Minnesota, and the ones in Wisconsin, do not feel like this. Before this kind of thing was fresh. Only now did it become clear how gripping it all really was; so far from anyplace in either direction, a certain desire to be grounded came over Led as he drove. He felt like a rock thrown from his own hand, a rock in flight, hurling through space and to a degree time. If that rock were to have the desire to drop from mid air before coming to its destined halt, could it? Could it?

Soon the electricity came. So thick he was unsure if he could actually see it. It seemed as though he could. The sky was cloudless, but unwelcoming, drab, desolate, though the road was populated.

A sign reads Canton- who gives a shit miles- Youngstown, more miles.

"Is Youngstown in Ohio or Pennsylvania?" asked Led.

"I have no fucking clue."

"Me neither."

"But we gotta stop and eat though."

"Yeah, alright."

There were signs for rest stops with restaurants and fast food joints, but whatever these signs were saying was not backed up with any results. Endless signs, scarce rest stops. At least that's what it felt like once he started looking for one.

But, alas, there be one. To the right, because where else would it have been? He exited the highway and followed the set concrete and asphalt path in a rightwardly direction.

"How are we going to do this with all our stuff in the back? You want me to go in, and then you, or you go in and then me?" asked Led.

"No one's gunna take our shit man. We're in Ohio!"

"Well I'll park in view of that window up there in case."

Led locked the doors and they walked up a well landscaped, though dead, hill to this rest establishment. And they headed straight to the bathroom. There were cute girls here. Was it a school day or something? Were these chicks on a field trip?

Whatever.

Then they went to the burger joint. Standing in-line Led watched a little girl searching around for straws upon her father's request. She was about five or something, but the straws were in a place that she would not see with her low eyes. They were however within her arms reach.

"Right there, sweetheart," Led told her.

She found them well and for a moment he wondered if anyone looking on found it strange that he was polite to children, as if they didn't deserve it. And then he remembered he didn't give a shit.

They ordered their food, but when they went to pay, he realized his wallet was not in his pocket. It was on the dashboard from that toll. With a sigh, and an observation that the little things were starting to get to him, he hustled out to his truck which was standing post, militant and on edge in the electric breeze; unlocked the door, grabbed the wallet and hustled back to pay the woman. A heavy set upper twenties black woman. He joked with her without really paying attention. Something about the trip may have been muttered. She was amused with them. They took their food and went to a table by the window.

Led found himself making eye contact with these girls through his sunglasses. He assumed Laser was experiencing the same thing, and he was, and it occurred to him that this was a good look for him. Strung out, exhausted, wasted in some weird way, stubble on his face, wearing all black, and black sunglasses inside. Chicks dug it, apparently.

They ate, Led looking out at the truck, and Laser, facing inward to the cafeteria, was looking out at the girls. More or less in silence. Comments, otherwise, "What's up slut?" to a chica across the room said under the breath. Maybe. Or something.

After a settled short while, it was time to head back. But Led needed to hit up the cash machine before they took off. For tolls, he assumed.

There was a corridor, it was wide, and it lead down to where the bathrooms were where he had first had to abandon sight of his truck and all his worldly possessions for a moment, but this time Laser had his eye on the vehicle. This corridor also took him to the cash machine. There was a person using it. He waited. The man took a little while, before turning away empty handed. He told Led, "The things busted."

Led turned around and walked back to their table empty handed. Huh? He thought. Well. He could still get gas with the card. He guessed he'd figure it all out later.

"Shall we?"

They got in the truck and Led drove over to the gas station there. The pumps were all occupied and in use. But to the left of the attendant booth in the center was an open one in between a green minivan and a maroon sedan. He had to parallel park to get access to it and after filling the one tank he took part in an awkward misunderstanding with another driver.

"Would you fucking move?! I'm not done here you dumb fucking bitch!"

Road Rage. While waiting for people to clear out so he could move to the opposite side of the pumps Laser asked, "Are you gunna want me to drive?"

As he asked that Led was swallowing another caffeine pill. It was early evening then. At least by the winter light standards.

From behind his tilted soda bottle and his sun glasses, his eyes shifted toward Laser, "You want some caffeine?"

"Nah."

"Than I'll drive man. I'm kind of wired, ya know?"

"You look like a crazy person."

"Yeah. I feel like a crazy person too." Led said, gritting his teeth, in part from the cold, and in part from delirium.

Eventually he got to a pump through the crowd of vehicles and was able to fill up the other tank. The air was cold and the wind was biting. They drove away and Led pushed the gas, gaining speed as he entered back onto the highway.

"Do you realize," Laser asked, "that we're driving in the same direction as this fucking storm?"

He had realized. As soon as they hit the Nor'Easter they wouldn't see a dry sky until sometime after they were home again. As the storm moved east, so too would they. As the water fell from heaven to the earth, they would have to deal with the inconvenience. And it was an inconvenience, but no matter the delay, if the decision to rest and wait it out were to be made, the aforementioned inconvenience would pale in comparison.

The directions read that once they hit Youngstown they would be going straight for another 283 miles. It was assumed that that long stretch was Pennsylvania. Signs read, Youngstown, closer than the last time.

Led was wondering where the storm was. The sky was gray, and although it was almost early evening by winter standards, everything was much darker than it should have been. At this time in the afternoon the sky was a perpetual dusk. He wondered when the snow would fall. He wondered when Ohio would end. He wondered how long it would take to drive across the great state of Pennsylvania in a blizzard.

As the highway shifted he veered to the right and changed lanes. A horn caught him off guard and he quickly corrected to the lane he was changing from. A beige luxury car, of expensive note and German descent pulled past him accelerating and hauled ass away; away from him. He was getting sloppy. It was not like him to change lanes without looking or signaling.

"Yo, that bitch would be pissed if you creamed her fucking beamer!" Laser said laughing.

And then it happened. Around a curve in the road was a most beautiful sight. A toll booth. The end of Ohio. It finally happened. Ohio was done. Thank god. Onto Pennsylvania.

He rolled up to the window.

"Give me the ticket man," he said to Laser.

"Where is it?"

"What? Uh."

The woman stood watching them. She was in her upper thirties with sandy blond hair and an aged wrinkled face that looked annoyed.

"Just a second please."

The interior of the truck was in disarray. Led didn't expect to find the ticket, but he and Laser gave a valiant effort in looking for it anyway. Jackets were being thrown up and down and all around. The pillow was shoved to the foot well and then moved again when it was time to search that area.

"You don't know where it is?" Led asked Laser.

"No man! You don't know?!"

"No! Fuck."

Led might have been pissed off. But he knew the people behind him had more reason to be upset than he did.

"Where did you get on the highway at?" the woman asked them.

"We've been on it since Indiana. The whole stretch."

"That's $9.25," the woman said.

"Oh," said Led. "You got any money Laser?"

"I've got 2 dollars. What do you have?"

Led opened his wallet and pulled out the last of his bills. "I've got two dollars." He told the woman. "We've got four dollars."

"Where are you going with no money?" the woman asked accusingly.

"We're going home to Massachusetts."

'From where?"

"Minnesota."

"With no money? Give me what you've got, give me your driver's license, and pull up on the side over there and my manager will be out with the paperwork."

He did what she asked.

"I wish I hadn't given her my Minnesota license. If I had given her my Mass one I'd just go right now."

"You've got another license? Then fucking leave then."

"What?"

"Just fucking go!"

Led knew he was right. He didn't have time for that shit. He'd been awake for way too long and had way too much Pennsylvania to deal with. These people could blow it out their ass. The fucking Ohio border. Whatever.

Laughing, he put the truck into drive and floored it back out onto the road. They were both laughing. Burning toll booths for five dollars was too funny of a situation. On the one hand it was illegal. And on the other hand, who on Earth was going to give a shit about five dollars. How far would the man pursue them to get his five dollars?

Speeding, he was wondering when the hell he was going to find the border. It didn't make sense that the toll be that much distance from the border. Unless they made it that way for exactly this occurrence. Every moment he expected cop lights in the rearview.

Still laughing, he called his mother on Laser's cell phone to tell her about it. She didn't think it was that funny. And when Laser called his mother, she too reacted in more or less the same way.

A sign read New York City with an arrow pointing where they were headed.

"Did you see that fucking sign man?" he asked Laser. "We made it. We actually fucking made it. This is the home stretch to the home stretch.

Pennsylvania

A sign says, Welcome to Pennsylvania.

"It's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," said Laser.

"Imagine when we see New York. Or fucking Connecticut?"

Led watched Ohio retreat into history through the rearview mirror. Before him was the gray sky and the gritty unkempt roads of Pennsylvania, the road was becoming what looked like a tunnel carved through forest, and the snow fell from the sky. The first drops melted on the wind shield and the snowfall was minimal, especially in the winding forest where overhead trees would catch most of the initial precipitation.

But as the snow fell more and more, Led found it much more difficult to drive the rear wheel drive truck. Everybody was passing them. It was only slush at this point but it was all so slippery.

"Go faster, yo!" Laser said as they were being passed by a line of a few cars.

"It's not that simple man. I can feel it slipping every time I step on the gas. I don't feel like being in a ditch."

As they made a little progress in the task that was moving across the state, the tractor trailer trucks became a major problem. They were all in such a rush. Everyone had to pass them. The trucks got so close Led had to push over to make way and in that action he almost slid off the road each time. When the trucks did get past him, their tires would kick up so much sand and moisture it clouded his windshield and blinded him until the windshield wipers could wipe all the slime away.

The landscape was eerie. It reminded Led of certain movies taking place in Irish or Spanish forests. As if at any moment a winged fire breathing dragon would land before them in the road and incinerate the line of vehicles.

"Jesus Christ!" said Led, as the forest fell away behind them and he found himself driving over a long bridge, spanning a tree covered canyon. Fog drifted through it menacingly and Led remembered how much he hated heights. That could not be less than a hundred foot drop, probably more than 150 feet.

A tractor trailer truck flew past them and Led gripped the wheel tight and kept all of his attention on the road.

"These fucking trucks man!" Led says.

"They gotta get their load to Poughkeepsie on time."

"Fuck their load." He lit a cigarette.

The black of the tarmac and the dark gray of the slush were consuming Led. Consuming his attention at least. Every time he ventured to press the pedal the rear end felt only a flick of the foot away from coming around in a fishtail from behind them. Rarely did he feel comfortable doing more than thirty miles an hour. The snow fell all around them, they drove through it. Led noticed the mist hanging in the trees. And to the right, a spin out away, was a 50 feet drop-off of peril.

Cliffs that were as wooded as the forest. Long falls. Of course on the other side of the road the land mass rose too far above what the driver could see from simply looking out the window. For those traveling west there was less threat of a fall to their death, and Led was envious of that.

"Yo. Pull off so we can get some beer."

"Wait a little while. It's not falling heavy enough to be drinking."

Led was unsure whether or not he wanted to be drinking and driving through this snow. On the one hand he knew that people don't usually get pulled over in weather like this. But driving in this stuff was not a maneuver to be taken lightly and drinking alcohol could be dangerous.

"You don't have to drink, but I need a fucking beer man. Maybe, I can get some sleep," said Laser.

"I'd be jealous."

The road was curving through some woods. Evergreens mostly. The terrain seemed to be constantly shifting. The road stayed flat, aside from a few hills. But off the road the land rose and fell endlessly. Every so often they drove across another canyon bridge and Led held his breath and gripped the wheel.

In the rearview there were cop lights.

"Oh fuck," Led said when he noticed them.

He made an effort to pull aside, which was more of a formality than an attempt to avoid actually pulling off and getting stuck. The cop drove past them at speed.

The snow was gaining intensity now. As it accumulated on the roads Led was getting more and more comfortable with driving through it. He started treating the truck as if it were a snow mobile; letting the front wheels act as though they were skis and using the rear tires to provide momentum. Accelerating and decelerating when he could feel his traction waning.

There were vehicles all over the side of the road. A tractor trailer truck that had almost driven them over a cliff is jackknifed on the side of the road, with the cop car parked by it.

"Yes! That is fucking awesome! Fuck you dickhead!" Led was shouting excitedly, waving his middle finger out the window at it.

And they drove on. Making way through the giant state. The snow always falling harder and harder. The trucks passing, one by one, endlessly. Every one in a hurry.

Laser got on the cell phone with a friend. He reported their location, and their expected delay. He told the friend that they would stop by his house once they got into Massachusetts, but that they had no idea when that would be.

From the canyon bridges you could see nothing. Only white filling the air. gray across the sky. The world was blanked out.

"Yo. This is fucking creepy," said Laser.

And at that moment, a truck was passing them on the bridge. Led lost his eyesight and got scared like when something falls while sitting alone. He felt a falling sensation flow through him. Begining his head, where it started. He tried screaming and had no voice. He felt that he was falling in his chest, and in his legs. There was no impact or sense of motion other than falling and he had no sense of his body to step on the brakes with. Time stood still for an instant and it seemed like an eternity.

The terror inside him, in that moment, was something he had never before imagined. He wanted to call to Laser, but he was still removed from himself. There was nothing left except falling and undefined fear. And then he opened his eyes and was ok again. In an instant. His eyes were on the road and the big truck was pulling back into the lane in front of them and throwing the dirty water all over his windshield and he flicked the control to wipe them clean.

It was as though nothing had happened. But that couldn't be. He remembered everything that had just happened. The terror was still crushing in his chest. His lungs were attempting to take great inhalations as if trying to force the evil out and he found himself choking.

He eased the truck to a halt at the end of the bridge and regained his breath. The snowy evergreens were towering over the road before them. Led was taking deep breaths; he stared straight ahead as the tractor trailer pulled away. A red goat, with fiery hindquarters that curled to a narrow end, flew from one side of the road to the other, left to right. It didn't touch the street when it moved and it halted in a complete stop long enough to look him dead in the eyes; before its unearthly momentum carried it off into nothingness.

In a blur Led's eyes followed it away. And when they regained focus he was looking at Laser.

Laser's face was flushed of all its color; pale skin that was almost translucent. His mouth hung open and his eyes were wide. Slowly he turned to face Led, who threw the truck into park and pressed his back into the truck door, gripping the seat with both hands.

"You look like how I feel," Led said.

"You too."

"What the fuck just happened?"

"I don't know man," Laser said with a shiver.

They both lit cigarettes. Led put the truck in gear, pulled it half off the road and got out. The snow on the ground was past his ankles. Laser got out too.

"Did you see that fucking goat!?" Led shouted over the wind.

"Of course I saw the goat."

"Fuck."

They walked to the side of the bridge and looked out over the white void. There was no landscape here. Just a cold deep white.

"I don't think we are going to be alright." Said Laser.

"Me neither. Let's go"

They got in the truck and Led pulled away in a panic. He was disregarding their safety and letting the truck fishtail. Always a moment from losing control. Laser said nothing. Neither of them noticed they were in danger. They passed the big trucks that had been threatening to them previously. And Led drove in either lane that suited his whim. And after many miles of dangerous driving, through woods and around the mountainous bends, Led found an exit with a gas station.

The truck bogged in the unplowed snow and Led boar through it. He pulled into the little gas station tucked away in some trees by the interstate. There was no one around. There was not a car in site. And when he went to buy a drink he discovered the store was locked.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he said.

Laser was standing outside the truck. "They're not open?"

"No."

The next gas station they went to wasn't open either. They were able to use a card at the pump to purchase gas. But every gas station off the highway was closed. And seemingly everywhere was abandoned.

It was only when they ventured to drive a couple miles into a town from the highway did they come to understand the full extent of the situation they were in.

There was a road leading off into the whiteout in either direction. The highway passed over this road and it was not plowed.

Led took a right and pushed through the snow into the blizzard. The interstate disappeared behind them and they were engulfed in the whiteout for a short while. Until he caught sight of a street sign that made his heart sink. It was a blue shield that read I-80. And it wasn't possible.

I-80 was a mile behind them.

"That's the fucking highway man." Led said.

"It can't be." Said Laser.

Stupefied, Led kept driving under the highway and away from it. He drove about another mile through the white void until he slammed on the brakes and slid all over the road.

The sign was there again. I-80.

"Oh. No fucking way!" Said Laser.

Led just stared at it. He gunned the engine and got back onto the highway heading east. And he drove, until he passed a truck and pulled ahead of it. He parked his vehicle blocking both lanes of the road and got out and stood next to it. In the bed, their belongings were covered by a thick coating of white powder.

The eighteen wheeler came to a halt in the road and he ran up to it. And as he placed his hand on the door handle the truck exploded powerfully, sending him hurtling through the air and into a tree at the foot of a towering cliff.

Laser stood over him as he regained consciousness and opened his eyes.

"Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead."

Led looked around and saw that another tractor trailer had come to a stop heading west. "I think we're both dead," he said. Laser helped him to his feet. And as he ran toward the other vehicle he realized his body was rife with pain. His head was ringing and his vision was clouded red with blood. But this did not stop him. He opened the door of the other truck and again he was blown through the air.

This time he maintained consciousness mid flight. He even caught a glimpse of the other truck engulfed in flames while midair. He landed in an out of control roll down a steep hill. He bounced off of rocks and again collided with a tree that destroyed his momentum. He stood up quickly and walked up the hill. Crying out in pain as he moved.

Laser met him and helped support him as they walked back to the truck. When they got back in the truck Laser was in the driver's seat and Led said, "Remind me to leave those trucks alone. Let's go. Go to the next gas station."

They drove in silence. In the passenger seat Led was looking into the mirror and pulling all the broken glass from his face and throat. He used snow from the roof of the truck to clean his wounds. And some deep cuts in his arms and chest were refusing to clot. There had been several shards deep enough to make him nervous.

They pulled into a gas station and Led got out before they stopped moving. He took a large stone Buddha from the bed of the truck and threw it through the glass window of the establishment. The glass shattered and fell to the floor and he walked in. Of course it was abandoned. Laser followed him in and went to the drink case for a beer.

"They don't have beer in gas stations in Pennsylvania?" Laser asked.

"It's Amish country. The phones are dead." He had wanted to call 911.

"Go figure. Mine's dead too. No signal. There hasn't been since that bridge."

Led found the medical supplies and sterilized and dressed his wounds. He took four over the counter pain relievers.

"So what do you think happened?" Laser asked him.

"What do you think?"

"I think we're dead. And I think the truck and our corpses are back in that gorge."

"Me too."

They were right. At that moment their bodies had been retrieved and the families had been notified. The world went on without them. Loved ones grieved the loss.

When she heard the news, Led's mother slit her wrist and walked into the woods where she died.

When she heard the news, Laser's mother wrapped her mouth around the barrel of a pistol and shot through the back of her skull.

It was the talk of their hometown for months. Friends would pour beer out for them when they drank. And close friends were forever changed. Some becoming very successful.

When Theresa heard she fell deep into a bottle of rum. All of her ambition drifted away from her. She dropped out of college and died of a heroin overdose three years later.

Led and Laser never got off of I-80. It seemed to own them. They were forever haunted by the fire goat that randomly came to check in on them. Of course they tried everything they could think of.

Suicide only brought sleep and regeneration. Dismemberment created the individual anew.

Laser severed Led's head from his body and placed it in the back of the truck and drove off. A moment later Led would appear in the snowy road before the truck and the head would disappear. This was tried again with Laser's body and this time Led held Laser's head in his lap as he drove away. The head simply vanished, dematerialized instantly, and Laser appeared in the road.

They drove the truck off a bridge and into a canyon. Only to find themselves parked on the bridge after an experience nearly identical to that first fall.

When they found a house off the interstate and tried to enter, it would explode in the manner of the tractor trailers and kill one or both of them depending on how close they had been. Naturally, overtime, this act became a source of amusement for them. Or they would find abandoned cars to explode or tow to cliffs and push off. Or better yet; build a ramp and jump them off.

Eventually they got very comfortable with the regeneration process.

Every rest stop map marked them at the same point dead in the center of Pennsylvania, East of Snow Shoe, though the rest stops themselves would change in appearance.

They found food to eat by raiding the gas stations for whatever they wanted. Sometimes liquor could be found in these places; stashed away in an office. Or a few beers in a mini fridge. In very rare occurrences over eternity marijuana appeared. Led always had his sack full of drugs though. But they never found a liquor store. Or a beer distributor. As Pennsylvania does not carry beer in liquor stores.

So they drove on through the days and nights and the snow that never stopped. The tractor trailer trucks never stopped passing them. Forever trying to get that load to Poughkeepsie.

Led and Laser talked about everything there was ever to talk about. Led wrote stories while Laser drove. And Laser wrote songs on the acoustic guitar while Led drove. Or Laser wrote, and Led played music. They talked and laughed about the absurdity of it. That hell was frozen over after all.

Laser had a habit of casually rehashing his anger that Led had driven them to their deaths. And reiterating the regret he feels for not having taken the wheel at that gas station in Ohio. Led more or less agreed with this but maintained that they would have made it safely if the truckers didn't drive like such assholes.

Sometimes motorists and townsfolk can catch a glimpse of them out of the corner of their eye in a gas station. Sometimes truckers see them standing on the side of the bridge; when they've been running too many hours and aren't rested like they should be. But they never turn back. They've always gotta get that load to Poughkeepsie.

To this day they are still driving on I-80. Being passed by phantom trucks. In the whiteout. As if they too had been whited out. And they will be forever.

229 to

Exit 10A

I-90 East into Ill'n 570/ mi

Keep left

I-90 express E/ I-94 E/ Dan Ryan exp E toward 51st

Merge onto I90 E/ I-94 E/ Dan Ryan EXPY toward exit 59A/ Indiana toll rd

Merge I-80 E

Via exit 218 to Youngstown

Into PA 278.3 miles

Merge onto I-81 N via exit 260B on the left toward Wikes- Barre

Exit 187 toward I-84 E/ Mt. Ponocal

I-380 S/ Milford/ US- 6 E/ Carbondale

165/ miles

Merge onto I-691 E via Ex. 27

8.7/ miles

Exit 11 I-91 N to Hartford

Merge onto CT-15 N via ex 29 toward I-84

Becomes I-84

fin

00000000000000000000000000

Bad situation/ Unsettled feeling/ Insecure

Bad luck/ Loss will be incurred/ Dashed hope/ An end

Or

Hope/ Good omen/ Bright future

No permanence/ Deep spiritual need/ Understand burden/ Overcome!

Taking advantage/ Take no risks/ Wait for storm to end/ Control yourself/ See forest as it is/ Control imagination/ Will correct in your favor/ If. . .

Won't run smooth/ Think of new ways/ Will straighten out/ Discouraging news/ Urgent need for money/ Must work/ Crave change/ Act with certainty

Ride the wave/ Do what feels right/ Matter over mind/ Mind over matter

Need discipline/ A butterfly flits its wings,/ And knows no way/ Feeling weight/ Don't tolerate me/ Weak character

Assistance given/ Right teammate,/ Will bring success/ Business venture/ Keep going for reward/ Practical knowledge

Attached to materialism now/ Likes power/ Sound judgment/ Well rounded goals/ Usurer/ Miser/

000000000000000000000000000000000000

An Angel in the Mirror

Number 03

Her:

The death I am talking about is eternal death (in Hell)- granted everyone dies but the Savior Jesus Christ is the ONLY one who died and rose again conquering death. He saved me from eternal death in Hell- saved everyone if they just accept it- so I can experience true life! I absolutely agree with you about the religion thing- People try to control other people through religion. I know Satan uses religion against God- He makes people think they have to follow a set of rules in order to get to God. That's what I'm trying to tell you- I don't buy into all those rules- there's only ONE thing that saves me, it's God finding a way to get to me- His death on the cross and rising again. Nothing I do gets me to heaven and my sin doesn't prevent me from getting to Heaven. No one is using sin against me- God knows we're human which is why he provided a way for us to go to Heaven- through Him and only Him. It's amazing! I don't need to "try' to be good or whatever because I could never be good enough however I want to do good things out of gratefulness for what Christ did for me. I don't have religion RRRose - I have a God who loves me so much and loves everyone so much. Most of the wars in history claimed to be due to religion but only had greedy, twisted men behind them. It wasn't of God. There are still Christians who make mistakes though- just because I am a follower of Christ doesn't mean I'm perfect by any means it just means that I know I'm a sinner and that I need a Savior. Back to the religion thing for a second- the Bible talks about false teachers all the time and to be careful of them- those who try to use religion as personal gain, etc and warns us against them. So of course they exist.  
You say that everyone knows how to act correctly- where do you think that innate feeling of right and wrong comes from? What makes something right or wrong to you? You said nothing stays true- now does that mean that statement in itself isn't true? What you said just broke the law of non-contradictions. Creation does not in ANY way ignore science. I could go on for hours about creation and how it is more scientifically based than the big bang theory and others. I'm actually taking a class that researches creation from a scientific point I would love to send you my notes when I finish the class :).  
America is no longer a Christian nation- we are stepping further and further from God. And just because there are lot of people who CLAIM to follow Christ does not mean there are actually people who are radically following Christ and there's a vast difference.  
I wasn't sure what your point is about the people who pray and live and those who pray who also die- unless that was it? God is still sovereign and He chooses who lives and dies regardless. Jesus said that just because someone becomes a Christian does not mean they won't experience trials and bad times it just means Jesus will be with them.  
You've been going to all the wrong churches then if you really think that a true follower of Christ does not welcome those who think different or are gay, etc. I have friends who are gay and and who think different- it doesn't make them any less of a person. In the Bible it NEVER says to hate those who are gay etc. Yes it says it's wrong but it also says lying, cheating etc. are wrong too. We don't condemn them- it's not our place we are called to love everyone (and anyone who calls themselves a Christian and says differently should study the Bible more). Just because I love someone though doesn't mean I will condone their actions- just like we don't applaud someone for lying. We're ALL the same regardless of what we struggle with. A true Christian will welcome anyone and everyone. Furthermore, Christ never said "you can be a Christian as long as you don't think anymore" on the contrary! We are called to use the minds He gave us - so even if someone is a progressive thinker I don't see how that should make a difference as long as it's validated.  
The Bible was not written by man- it was inspired by God- Think about it- just a few mere facts about the Bible make it incredible: It was written by 40 men from different walks of life over 1600 years and over different continents and yet it still had the same message without any contradictions and it's still the number 1 selling book today. That in itself is incredible. You can't find ANY book like that- I'd be happy to share more facts about the Bible if you'd like.  
You said there is no absolute truth but by saying that you think that statement is an absolute which contradicts what you are saying to begin with.

I told you I have God feelings- you don't need to try to convince me at the end that I do! He created us to use our knowledge and our feelings.  
R.R.Rose, of course I've done a lot of searching regarding this. Trust me I wouldn't base my whole life on something that I just got randomly. Being a Christian isn't easy- it would be easy to live how I wanted, everyday doing whatever "feels" good but that's not the life I want to live- I want to base my life on truth. Not only do all the facts point to a Creator God who died for me but I know this is the truth. I have had my doubts in the past- but God doesn't rebuke our doubts He wants us to search our faith out. SO that's what I did- I searched for the truth and I found it. There are countless people out there who were atheists and they set out to disprove God and they ended up proving He exists- one of them, it was his life work and the book he wrote afterward is huge- The Evidence that Demands a Verdict by Josh MacDowell.  
I like our talks too and I'm glad we can talk about this in a friendly environment. I think it's great that you want to post our talks. Christianity is the only faith that answers everything- even if I continue to have doubts (which is possible since I don't know everything) I find an answer in Christ every time!  
Let me know what you think. Have a lovely day!

Me:

My dear, I am not yet prepared to respond to your email, though I must admit that that may have been checkmate. We'll see.  
Yours,  
R.R.Rose

Her:

Honestly I think a lot of the questions you may have regarding the basis of Christianity will be answered when you read that book I sent you. I really hope you do read it. Please.

Hope you have a lovely night!

Me:

Well. You talk about no other book boasting the same far reaching credentials as the bible. But I would imagine the Koran and the Jewish faith books at least are as supernatural as the bible claims to be. Every book of every faith will mesmerize it's readers with tales of otherworldly conception. And I mean writing the book not the birth of Jesus. And if you've watched the movie Zeitgeist you should be questioning that tale. Pity those who take authority as truth rather than truth as authority. But thats not relevant.  
There is no hell. Astral projectionists can travel to any place in time and space and they have never found a place of perpetual torment. In the other dimensions there is no negativity. You can only rise after death, not fall. And from what I can tell, at worst stay semi earth bound and a little confused...  
This confirms what that alien guy says about multiple dimensions. To ascend negativity and positivity must be as one. What is really going on in the universes oddly has much to do with the way ghosts behave. The realm they exist in is just an example of the multiple dimensions.  
You understand that religion is deplorable. Yet you maintain that there is a hell. Hell is a tool used by religion to create fear and fear is a tool used by religion to control people. I don't know how else to say this but everything they've ever told you is a lie. And however strong your love for god is; that thing you love is not what you are thinking it to be. The alien guy would say you are right and you are wrong. There is an enormous power. Except it's more like a grand design that harnesses principles like karma and vibrating energy. Karma is the big one. By following the "commandments" (which completely destroy freewill BTW) you are making good karma for yourself. Who is to know where karma begins and ends? It just is and thus the golden rule, the only one that matters, do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Honestly nobody knows anything about anything, including me, which means nobody knows anything about god, including you, so you have faith and are wasting your life.  
I wasn't saying that you've got feelings in general. I'm saying you've got feelings for god and Jesus and thus you're feelings have been manipulated since you were young.  
There is no heaven, only infinite realities and universes, 12 or 9 or so dimensions, the harmonic, waveform (vibrations), and we are caught up in the middle of it somehow. Like the infinite energetic beings that exist wherever else. Maybe, just maybe, there is a god with some grand scheme. Maybe everything just is? What makes you think that religion has ever taught anything correctly? Matter of fact, they've always been wrong about everything. At least as far as science has to say about it. All they know how to do is control. Fear = control. That's the only thing they've got right. The sense of god they've given is putting something unknowable into terms and ideas a human mind can grasp. We've both agreed that nothing can be known. So I think the only solution here is to admit that we both know nothing about anything. We are both very wrong.  
Sweetheart, I feel in tune with every energy I've ever been given access to. I gain understanding little by little, day by day, through trial and error. I've told you, I'm an occultist. I play with the powers of god on the daily by seeing into mirrors and solving peoples problems with a deck of tarot cards. I wouldn't know where to begin if I wanted to tell you about the things I know, that I don't really know.  
There are endless secrets waiting to be learned. And the only time god comes up is when someone who knows these secrets is writing them down in a book and they come to the unknowable. God is that which cannot be known. He doesn't need to be worshiped. If anything only your fellow man should be worshiped for the sake of good karma. He won't punish you for the way you've lived your life. Christianity maintains that every person alive who is not a Christian will die and go to hell. What is more likely is that when we all die we are all going the same way. To the other side. The great beyond. Not castles in the clouds or a lake of fire in hell. It is death. It is part of life. And we'll all get our chance to experience it.  
God is your culture and your lifestyle. And god is what your life here is about. That's all I've got to say for now. Make sure you watch the first third of Zeitgeist. I've been trying to read the book you sent. Honestly, whenever I read the words of a religious person I kind of zone out. You're a different story. Really I've misplaced this book and can't for the life of me find it. It couldn't have gone far. I need to ask my girlfriend if she's seen it. I know its rude of me to lose the book you sent, but it was really an accident. And I've been wanting to read it so at least I can banter with you about it. You should pray for me to find it though. Cuz I've looked everywhere it would be. Give yourself a kiss on the cheek for me.

Her:

R.R.Rose, there is a difference in claiming to be inspired and actually being inspired. There is no fault in the Bible that is a fact. It can't be disputed. The Jewish Torah is part of the Bible. It's the first five books of the Bible. After you have read it and researched it then you can tell me that it's the same as the other books. Until then you can't compare it to the other books because you are not an authority on the subject.  
Hell isn't meant to bring fear. Hell was created not for men but for the Devil and his demons (Jesus died for us so we don't have to go to Hell and God wants everyone to accept that gift). God gave people free will- choice to love him or not. That is what free will is. I have the choice to follow God or follow man. Either way people are following something.  
God doesn't want anyone to be afraid of anything. In the Bible (2 Timothy 1:7) it states "For God has NOT given us a spirit of FEAR, but of POWER and of LOVE and of a SOUND MIND." (emphasis being my own).  
I haven't agreed that nothing can be known. I know the truth and I believe in absolute truth. I don't know everything (only God knows everything).  
God isn't my culture. I choose to believe what science, the earth, everything around me, the Bible, points to: there is a God. He is my life. Science does point to a Creator God- remember I'm studying that right now in one of my classes- in that book I sent you you will find there is a lot in there- trust me I have researched this and I'm studying it.  
I'm praying you find that book- honestly R.R.Rose if you read that book you will see just some of the proof for God. Please read it. Or better yet read a Bible- Romans is a good place to start. Richie honestly we could go on and on for ever but the evidence is all around you that there is a God who loves you and wants a relationship with you. Don't you see it? Don't you see that Someone had to have created this world that it couldn't have just come to being with the complexity that it is. That there is bad things in the world and in order to have a bad there has to be a punishment for it? My heart breaks for you and everyone who doesn't know of the hope of Jesus.  
I hope you have a lovely day R.R.Rose

Me:

I promise as soon as I find the book I'll read some of it. I can pick up jists really well so that should be sufficient.  
Not everyone follows something.  
And sadly I am an authority on the bible by a certain default. You cant bullshit a bullshiter is one way to put it. For instance: was it a religious theologian that taught you the bible is flawless, or was it an agnostic philosopher?  
I can point out another fault. The first pages of genesis is ancient science-fiction. Poof. God made it. That would be ok as a metaphor for the billion year processes god could be responsible for. But they are claiming a higher power (who would need a day to rest?) did it all in a week. Some guy parted the seas with his bare hands because of magic. At one point every animal on earth went extinct, save for the pairs of animals on the arch, thus creating a world made entirely from an inbred population. Virgin conception. It's all magic. And every religion is based on magical premise because when you dangle that in front of people they are shocked into faith. It's all lies and manipulation.  
Ok, I had thought you said nothing can be known because I had said nothing can be known and you were like "if you know that than you would know youre wrong." In which case I retract any statement I've made about being wrong and maintain that your "truth" is a terrible lie. Well not a terrible one all the time, just usually and that it is an archaic and outdated mode of thinking that is just representative of man having not yet fully adapted to the new age arriving shortly and already partly in effect. the age of Aquarius is coming and the days of god are numbered. I have faith in that. Maybe that's reaching a little. He'll most likely always stake a claim as long as man is made aware of him, unless.... something goes awry.... you never know.  
God will only love us if we love him? Otherwise we burn in hell? That doesn't seem fair to the non Christians the world over.  
Did you watch zeitgeist? Jesus was the sun. get it, THE SON? His story is the tale of the suns movements through the stars like in a dozen religions before his. Bethlehem means house of bread and is in the constellation Virgo. It's not even a place on Earth. Try and find it on a map. The three kings are the stars of Orion's belt. Which on 12/25 aline with the the star in the east, Sirius, and point to the southern cross where the sun stops moving, or dies, for three days. 12 deciples, 12 constelations of the zodiac. It goes on. That isn't even the half of the facts. Real facts about the history of man and the way all these ancient systems were created. Watch Zeitgeist and if you aren't convinced I'll finally be done talking about this.  
Why do you let something distorted by 2000 years of human error rule your life?  
I'm praying you lose that book- honestly Angel- if you forget that book you will see just some of the beauty in freedom. Please lose it. Or better yet read a fiction novel (I know you read plenty but bare with me)- Romance is a good place for you to start. Angel, honestly we could go on and on for ever but the evidence is all around you that there is no God who loves you and wants a relationship with you. Don't you see it? Don't you see that Someone didnt have to have created this world and it could have just come into being with the complexity that it is. That there are bad things in the world and in order to have a bad there has to be a punishment for it is absurd. Even so it's called karma, not hell. My heart breaks for you and everyone who doesn't know what a wall Jesus is.  
I hope you have a lovely day Angel

Her:

Hi R.R.Rose,  
I already told you that there have been many atheists who have researched and studied science, etc and have come to the conclusion that their is a God. There are multiple proofs that the Bible is the Word of God. The reason why I spent money on that book and had it sent to you was because it went through a lot of these reasons. I could just list them out right here but I figured that book went through the proof of God, Jesus, the Bible in a clear and concise way. If you have any questions while you are reading that book feel free to write me. I'll watch zeitgeist link soon that you sent me. I have a lot of upcoming papers, midterms, and quizzes but soon I will watch it.  
I hope you have a good night!

Hi R.R.Rose-  
I can't find the link to the zeitgeist - can you send it to me again please! Thanks!  
Hope your day went good!

So I've only watched 25 minutes so far but i wanted to give you my thoughts so far:  
1. The alien guy says experiences are neither good or bad- so is that saying the murder of 6 million Jews was neither good or bad and countless other heinous crimes?  
2. Jesus was not born on Dec. 25th. He was born between March and November (while shepherds tended their flocks in the fields). We celebrate it on Dec 25 because during Constantine's reign around the 4th century the country was changing from a pagan religion to following Christ. In order to make the transition easier they changed the festival of the Unvanquished Sun (which takes place on Dec 25) to a celebration of Jesus Christ's birth. Therefore the theory the movie had regarding Jesus being born on Dec 25 along with the other sun gods are now null because we KNOW he wasn't born on Dec 25th.

I have more thoughts but I have to go to bed because I have to wake up very early and babysit 1 yr. old triplets! Tiring!  
Hope you have a good night,

Me:

Is that the time system they used? Shepherds tending flocks o clock?

1. Yeah. Karmically everything is equal. I didn't understand that at first but I've heard a lot of people say it. For some reason heinous crimes are necessary. If you and I were to go and kill adolph hitler, the only thing we'd accomplish is creating bad karma for ourselves. It's like we're not supposed to concern ourselves with anything other than our energy and that of those connected to us.

I understand why this doesn't make sense. But when are things ever as black and white as good and bad? The movie is talking about the authority of truth which is never black and white, its harmonic. And it's not usually easy to understand.

2. You heard the movie say no one ever documented Jesus's existence (three times in reference to "the Christ" which is a title and the fourth was a fraud).

That tid bit you said about him being born whenever is made up. March to November is nearly the entire year, "we know he was not, could not have been, born in late fall or in winter." You know better than anyone people can just make things up because you think everything I've ever told you is make believe. So just flip that around and take a look at what you see.

And it's not null because it explains why JC was celebrated on that day. But all the other god's had a birthday at the unvanquished sun. And they shared the whole astrological back story to it (so does jesus, the whole story). It becomes simply convenient that his birthday cannot be known. You'd think out of three wise men one of them would have thought to write that down. The church just spat that out one day when someone was like, "Why is Jesus born on the same day as Ra?" that date is right around when all the Davinci Code business was going down.

Yes that may be why Dec 25th is so celebrated. But you are ignoring every culture prior to Christianity and those cultures created it. The whole book is plagiarized from a dozen other books. Naturally, I haven't been witness to years and years of wishful thinking on behalf of myself and my church; so I get it that I do not know why the bible is so magical. But I do know that it doesn't matter. I said I'd give up after you watched Zeitgeist.

Listen. If anyone is more adept at spotting bullshit than you, I dont know who they are. And yet here you are defending this giant teetering structure of lies from any stone thrower who comes along.

The entire thing is made up. Religion has no good place in balanced human life. It is never correct. It is exploitive. Except Buddhism. And certain Paganism. And a couple others.

Every mammal has in their brain a mechanism to blindly follow. Religion, god, manipulates that. "Follow this while we follow money and power", is what those at the top say.

I follow words. Sometimes into a dead end. Sometimes through the doors of perception. Who knows? Maybe you're following your heart. But your heart is following....

You are not the first theologian. The undisputable facts exists because as every seeker who came before you asked questions the church created answers. Now there are solid indisputable facts that say that the lord is our shepherd.

That's why people like the people I associate with run around calling people sheep. Baa baa baa! Get it? There is no individuality there. The same sheep that always have been, always will be.

And I hope you know what the government uses religions for. This entire crooked machine we live in couldn't have been done without the Christians. That's sort of what the rest of Zeitgeist is about.

If you get sick of being in a flock. The truth will set you free.

Go to the book store and buy the first not religious New Age book that suits your fancy.

Her:

That information in the movie regarding the other people who had similar history as Jesus- where did that come from? Why should I believe what they said? There is proof for the Bible- I already said that- there are some in that book that I sent you so again I'm not going to write them out here and there are many books such as "The Evidence That Demands A Verdict" by Joshua Macdowell that includes a ton of historical and archeological evidence. <http://www.josh.org/site/c.ddKDIMNtEqG/b.4172663/>  
This is a bit of Josh's life: As an agnostic college student, Josh McDowell believed that Christianity was worthless. But a group of Christians challenged him to examine the claims of Christianity on an intellectual basis. Instead of succeeding in discrediting the truth of Christianity, Josh discovered compelling historical evidence for the reliability of the Christian faith. As a result, Josh accepted Christ as his personal Savior and Lord, and he found his life changed through God's love and grace  
And there are countless other people like him.  
I am good at spotting false things- which is why I do defend Christianity because of the evidence i have read and from what I know. When you said that every mammal has in their brain a mechanism to blindly follow where did they get that?  
You can't use the words of Jesus Christ at the end if you don't even believe in Jesus.  
I really want you to read that book and then after your done write me. Please.  
Sorry if this is hurried but I am writing this between classes!  
Have a good day!

0000000000000000000000000000000000

There is this bubble/ And it is unsteady/ There is a tool/ Right now/ The tool moves at speed/ It rotates/ There is a liquid/ And some lines in ink/ Serving as a gage

This is a level/ A tool of balance/ Falling from a high rise/ And this is my life/ Time is soooo slooow/ When it's all running out/ Only a moment left

All that flashes before my eyes;/ Is blurred scenery/ Not my sorry sad life/ Like breakers at the beach/ Waves crashing with fluid strife

I only wanted a wife/ All I got/ Was my own hand/ And a knife/ And scars/ From all the battles/ I've fought with myself

I crash hard/ But I am not broken/ Soon I will center that bubble/ Once more/ Another day/ Moving forward/ A bubble/ In or out of trouble

I am not a level/ Only a man/ I like staring at the moon/ Looking at the sun/ I find learning fun/ Like a loaded gun/ On early Monday morn

Women are my oxygen/ In their absence/ I think of asthma

Writing is my passion/ Writers never die/ I am a man/ I can dig immortality

The system fucked me/ But it's Ok/ I'm a lot strange/ But I'm used to it

I feel good/ When things are good/ I feel bad/ When things are bad

00000000000000000000000000

Pathetic Poet/ You flock of one/ Pathetic poet/ Your value is none/ Pathetic poet/ No one cares about you/ No one cares about your work/ Pathetic poet/ Poetry is better unwritten/ Feelings are better forgotten/ What are you poet?/ Well, a poet, you say?/ You are pathetic poet/ Nobody cares/ What are you poet?/ That's right/ Pathetic, poet

000000000000000000000000000

Floor Reflecting Fluorescence

My dismal heart still beats. My dismal cuts still bleed. Eyes are always averted to the floor. Thoughts will ache forever more. Ugly ugly humanity steals the outside from me. Inside, asleep, I dream a dream of a world. Well. No. I dream only of one girl. Wishes are different. The same old wishes and longings. To have the world to myself and a couple dozen beautiful girls. Or the wish to be able to cope with the American public. Sometimes the world's atrocities fall by the wayside. What can all the wrongs of this world matter when I don't even leave the house? Won't even leave the house. Self asphyxiation as quiet as a mouse. My dismal heart still pounds. Literature bound by the constraints of tradition. An anarchist's soul bound by tradition? Dismally I will begin to write however I want. Giving gratitude to James Joyce for setting my style free. The amount of thought I put into style is unsettling. And the only definite stance I can take on the issue is that it does not matter. Traditional, experimental, in between, none of it determines success. Moreover, what comes naturally is god to me.

Why am I not writing/ Right now?/ I am/ I was not before/ I am now/ Is this better?/ Will this save me?/ Why do I need saving?/ I feel the best I've ever felt/ It still feels like hell/ But there is no salvation/ From the land of fire/ Waiting out an eternity/ Is all that's left for me/ Will this pass the time?/ Will anything pass that?/ Passing an eternity/ Will go slow at best

What is waiting for me?/ I need to know/ Bypass the pipe dreams/ And be or not be/ Somebody tell me/ What the fuck is waiting for me?/ I need to know/ Time passes too slow/And runs out too quick/ Time just passes

00000000000000000000000000

There is nothing here for me/ Maybe you are lucky/ There is something here for you/ But there is nothing here for me/ Maybe I am lucky too/ Because as hopeless as this all is/ There is still something to look forward to

Release

Release from the binds of life/ Longing to go back to that spirit place/ That death place/ If not better than this place/ At least different than this place/ Something other than this place

It matters not what waits/ I will take anything over this/ Endless sadness

As a child/ I would have never suspected/ One day/ I would be looking forward to death/ As a child/ I was so afraid/ As a child/ I didn't know;/ Life could be worse than death

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The unexpected threatens/ Disturbing twists/ Can draw blood/ From a wrist/ A terrible betrayal/ Manifest through/ Other terrible betrayals/ And the reality/ Is destructive/ And nauseating/ Like mustard gas/ What has come around/ Is going around/ The unexpected to blame/ You never really/ Know people/ Until they shock you/ With overlooked motives/ And hidden agendas/ Self-importance/ An aftermath/ Of evil wrath/ Inhumane actions/ Threatened by the unexpected/ Taken a piece of you/ Putting an end/ To what could have been/ What should have been/ Would have been/ Until the unexpected happened

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Illuminated Weather

The image of 60 or so Asian people dressed in orange life vests and orange helmets floating on an equal mass of drowning Asians. Bobbing in the ocean waves. My autobiographical narrative will be released at the beginning of my career. I wonder if I will need another biography at the end of my career. Or life that is. What is the difference? If writers never die... do they ever live? Street lights serve more than one purpose. To me their best use is to make weather more beautiful. The random speckles in the steady South Dakota snow make these lights worthwhile. Illuminated weather atones for the evils of industry. I guess we're even now. This piece, as you know, will appear in Jesus Christ!. As will the poems pertaining to Janessa. I wonder if she'll sue me. I hope she does. Maybe she'll let me take her out after court. Wink wink dream girl. Almost time to type all this up. The unrested day off dictates. Well rested days off are for creating. But what is prose anyhow? It feels to me like prose exists in another dimension. There are ways to describe it but we can never understand. The Sapir- Whorf Hypothesis says, basically, language is reality; they are part of one another. All I know is my art is better than your art. The brightest paints pale to the black and white of a page. This is debatable, but what is not? Don't debate me. It's never that serious. Hopefully I will always be a Rose in the bookstore. A Rose in your collection. Oh, what's in a name? A writer by any other name would sell just as well. Or not. Remember, I only ever wanted to be something beautiful. At this moment I feel like a dandelion. Like many other unique dandelions, I am different than the commonplace grass surrounding me. In my heart center I know I am different than even the dandelions. I am a Rose.

If I wore a black cloak/ Would I feel better?/ If I never had to work/ Would I feel better?/ If there were a god/ Would I feel better?

The space in which we roam/ Is vast and mysterious/ Every horizon different/ Every twilight important/ We can float over the prairie/ Or swim among the stars/ We can love animals/ And be loved in turn/ We can love another/ And be loved in turn/ We can laugh hug kiss and love/ But we cannot be comfortable

Our Earth mother/ How much I love her/ But fuck her/ I'm better off without her/ Take the ground from my feet/ And the breath from my lungs/ And take my blood/ Take my thoughts/ And take my life/ Take my existence/ I don't want to die/ But I don't want to live

There is so much left/ For me to accomplish/ But I'd give it all away/ Just for peace of mind/ For some sense of place/ For a warm heart

Not everyone feels like me/ So I'll tell you about envy/ I'll tell you about sin/ I'll tell you about hell/ I will tell you about fire/ If you/ Will tell me/ About paradise

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It is with great reluctance I include in this work the teachings of the Eternally Dead Pale Mystic. This is the solution to our problems as I, and others, see it. Manifest positivity. You may have noticed I am a very negative person myself. There is an important hypocrisy here which is a whole different story because my own thoughts and the practices of Manifest Positivity have very little to do with one another. Moreover, EDPM is a blueprint to allow individuals that have the strength to carry out our objectives the means to achieve the realized design. These texts are some of our philosophy. My hope is that you read these pages word for word and let the message seep into your unconscious- and consciousness, for that matter. The Dead Pale Mystic is Eternal. To live Pale Mystic is my only advice to give.

ETERNALLY DEAD PALE MYSTIC

What is the Pale Mystic?

Oh readers. If only that were a simple question. I do not yet know the answer. But I do know the reason I do not know the answer. That reason is human nature. I think after long last we are re-evolving, or adapting. We have lost the desire to follow everything blindly. If the Pale Mystic cannot be followed blindly; we must show the world who he really is. Unfortunately, the Pale Mystic travels by night, in the mist, and does not want to be seen. He will not be seen unless it is his prerogative to show himself to you.

What we do know of the Pale Mystic is that surely he is a trickster. Because of the four whom he appeared to one night; he told each a different tale. That tale was the history of the world at the end of mankind's reign. Three of four tales told began roughly one hundred years from the night of their telling. That is to say that in one hundred years the race would conclude its fall.

The fourth tale was the one that was told to me. I will not repeat it. It was between him and I. But in my tale there was no foreseeable end. In my tale disaster had been averted.

I was shown how to accomplish this objective. In a brief but great and sweeping vision, it became my burden.

That night we founded the following and this is where the fun begins.

The Pale Mystic, by telling the other three the same story had discredited my version in such a way I was to be disbelieved or ignored. Such is human nature like that. In their re-telling to one another, my version did not fit in the comfort zone of the re-telling activity.

But when I did tell them about it they would become excited. One person three causes (see one person three causes) was death as an advisor's (see death as an advisor) big brother. Looking out for its well being.

The organizational set up was simple. The founders are infallible except to each other. And that was a mistake. We could not agree on anything.

It seemed to me that as a collective we should behave collectively. But we were all fiercely individualistic. Upon pondering this, collectivism vs individualism; collective individualism became the new standard. Which I more or less agree with. As long as we all adhere to one person three causes the objective can be completed.

Let me clear the air. We founded this as a CULT. As such we created a religion. The religion was to be used as an implement to bypass the standards and constraints placed on us by the government and ignorant masses. We chose Paganism for the specific practice of Earth worship. The Earth does not judge you or care what you do or condemn you thus if you worship it as the highest authority you become free to do whatever you like. One person three causes is simply a way for an individual to harmonize with the Earth.  
Since most intelligent people hate religion it cannot be stressed enough that our religion is a guise in which to mask our true lack thereof. Though, we do worship the Earth. The giver of life deserves our respect. No?

It is my goal to reestablish the harmony with our Earth mother in which native people lived. But things have changed. That harmony cannot be restored fully. So it will look slightly different.

If we incorporate the creations of man into our respect we will have the new harmony. It will be a modernized version of the old harmony. And this is not as important as it sounds. It is only an ideal to be pursued to the extent of the individual's desire.  
One goal of ours that we have all managed to agree on is that the EDPM is to be a network of support for its members should the economy collapse and end times fall upon us.

A founder used to ask me what I wanted from all of this. The answer to that question is: A facility or a hundred, with endless dehydrated food, where the members can live safely if the world should begin to crumble before our eyes as it already has.  
In the beginning it was my intention to manipulate everybody I could for the good of the cult. I spent much time scheming to get the cult rich quickly.

I was advised against this. Now to join all we ask is for a donation of what you can give. This does not mean I am not scheming for the cult.

But I would like to take this time to let this reader know; there will forever be at least one man and three women, and hopefully more, putting the totality of their energy into the benefit of this cult.

Everything we do, we do for the cult. Everything the cult does it does for its members.

As you have already read; our intentions are good. The negative connotations of the word "cult" are many. I simply don't know what else to call it. It is what we are. There should be no shame in that.

But we are more than a cult. We are a charity. We are a network of support. We are revolutionaries. We are whatever you would want to be in your wildest dreams.  
We invite you to join us and realize your dreams within the dark veil that is the Eternally Dead Pale Mystic.

The Following of the Eternally Dead Pale Mystic is a dark and mystical veil. Inside this veil anything is possible.

DEATH AS AN ADVISOR

We are beings on our way to dying... We are not immortal, but we behave as if we were. This is the flaw that brings us down as individuals and will bring us down as a species some day.  
\- Carlos Castaneda

Eternally Dead: The Breakdown of two words.

We acknowledge death. We embrace it to such an extent that we discredit it as such; thus erasing taboos, turning life and death into one concept, eradicating our fear of the unknown.

To adapt a phrase made popular by the US government; this is our War on Death. Through an appreciation for death and what death entails we can learn to live our lives more fully and freely. For instance, I no longer care about the negative opinions of others because one day I'll be dead and it would have been a waste of life to let others negative opinions affect me.

Don't let the thoughts of others pin you down.  
-C. Castaneda

That is more important than it sounds.

Man thinks he must choose sides, must be this or that; becomes confused and ultimately fears a "wrong path". Nothing is right or wrong. It is all the same.

The whisperer is death, the infallible advisor, the only one who won't ever tell you a lie.  
-C. Castaneda

Our war on death has mostly objectives on a personal level; for the betterment of the individual. We are however actively considering a movement against graveyards. Don't get me wrong, we at the Pale Mystic LOVE graveyards. But they may be sacrificed for the greater "good". To show the world that we are, and always have been, attached to a strange notion that head stones and burying rituals are actually necessary. All I see is a waste of land in over populated areas. Burning seems more appropriate in this day and age. Like I've said, we are only considering this right now.

Death is Life. All is one. Infinity.

It was over before you were born. Sucked into the vacuum of this universal tomb.  
-Dax Riggs.

ONE PERSON- THREE CAUSES

...pay elegantly, generously, and with unequaled ease every favor, every service rendered to them.... In this manner, they get rid of the burden of being indebted.  
-Carlos Castaneda

One person- Three causes.  
Choose and Save an Animal.  
Choose and Save a Plant.  
Save the humans. Choose and Stop an Atrocity.

This suggestion touches on a few things.

We'll begin with the most obvious: A blueprint for saving the Earth and man. With enough members dedicated to this system of enrichment we can save the Earth systematically; make it a better place to live in for all creatures. We owe this debt after living so recklessly ever since the industrial age. Some people care. There are numerous organizations for one cause or another. If you were to choose something for which there is already a group benefiting it; your responsibility would be to lend them a helping hand. If you choose something without anyone already helping the cause, it would be your place to create the movement.

This is also a great way to harmonize with the Earth. A Pale Mystic ideal is to live a very connected existence with some form of animal and plant that has been chosen. We have simply grown too far removed from nature. By incorporating plants and animals into our lives we can restore at least some of the lost harmony.

The last thing to mention is not a direct correlation but they are closely related. Let it never be said that the Pale Mystic does not have ulterior motives for our charity work, we do. Nonetheless the significance of charity work cannot be understated. By doing charity we are restoring a lost sense of community between one person and others.

There is no reason for this world to be a "less than" place. All the positive energy you cast into the universe will gather. And the place we live, the place your children will live in, will become better.

For now man is an ugly and selfish beast. We hope to change that.

No man can hold what the darkness can sow.  
\- Dax Riggs

COLLECTIVE INDIVIDUALISM

Collectivism vs. Individualism = Collective Individualism

PALE MYSTIC ARTS

THE GRANT PROPOSAL

(Created for a National Endowment of the Arts grant application)

Pale Mystic Arts was created specifically for the application for this grant. The grant fits perfectly with the goals of Eternally Dead Pale Mystic. EDPM was created for the purpose of making the world a more beautiful, good, and intelligent place to whatever degree the extent of our, the involved, combined efforts can produce. We use as our foundation the three principles of: Truth, Beauty, and Goodness. We created this organization in June of 2008.

Currently our scope consists of neighborhood clean-ups, elderly assistance, tarot readings for the homeless and other activities of similar note so long as they are within our means to accomplish. All Pale Mystic endeavors are voluntary and done as charity. This is our real world application of Goodness. Soon I will elaborate on the long term goals of the Goodness initiative.

Eternally Dead Pale Mystic is a Pagan organization which is simply to say that we hold no power to be higher than our mother Earth. The reason for this is that the Earth does not judge or condemn, or care, and within its mysterious power, and that of life itself, we are able to live more free. We are in the process of becoming a recognized religion for the sole purpose of gaining more freedom. In all actuality religion is something far removed from EDPM idealism. We are only trying to gain the freedom necessary to fulfill the scope of our vision.

Now that you know a little about us I would like to indulge, for your benefit, in the full scope of the Pale Mystic Arts artistic vision. Hence I will be exchanging the formal tone here insofar for a more visionary one.

This all concerns a metaphorical Tree of Life and a town called Willimantic, CT. Willimantic, some years ago, was deemed heroin capital of the USA. I grew up on the outskirts and can recall an acute awareness of the places not to go and which people I knew were being affected by this ominous place. There are train tracks and trestles where the junkies live in tents and many minority populated streets where drugs are readily available.

This entire back story will make sense when I explain the goal of Pale Mystic Arts. That goal, if actualized, should work in any area as long as the Mystics are proportionate to the population. In this case 4 for every 15,823.

Recently the town has become a very artistic community; filled with co-ops, collectives, and galleries of all kinds. I could not think of a more perfect place to grow the first tree than in Willimantic. Willimantic is to be a prototype of something which could best be defined as Manifesting Positivity.

Perhaps in your life you have noticed that Joy is contagious. The same with anger or sorrow.

Pale Mystic Arts is a seed to be planted. One that will grow into a Tree of Life. A Tree of positivity casting its shadow over all underneath it.

Manifesting Positivity is act upon act which are positive in their nature. Creating more and more positivity as every day passes. It is our hope and calculation that this energy will gather over the habitat and be reflected in the cities inhabitants. Making a better place in general and specific ways.

This is where the grant money comes into everything. Pale Mystic Arts needs a headquarters for a single year. We are confident that one year, beginning in the spring, is absolutely enough time for the roots to take hold. At which point we will be off, hopefully sponsored, to plant another tree in another deserving community.

The money will not only be spent on rent and utilities; it will also be spent on practical needs; garbage bags, paint and brushes, hardware and lumber, etc.

At this point I suppose you are wondering when actual artwork is to become involved in this plot.

The core principle of Beauty pertains greatly to the creation of art. Our artwork works in duality with the principle of Goodness, or charity. The artwork is to be created on real world canvases. In Willimantic at the trestles and train tracks or any other place littered with negative energy. The Mystics will clean these places of all their broken glass and dirty needles. And when the canvas is pure we will create art in its place. In essence staking claim to the land through the act of revitalization.

These artistic projects are limited only by our imaginations. Surely they will be comprised of abstract uses of bio-degradable materials. The art projects will be documented through photography and used to inspire others to create their own projects; subsequently cleaning dirty areas in the process.

And all of this is very lead by example in its nature. Every time we clean up a public space; for about a week after we find others wandering with trash bags and cleaning up garbage. We do not view this as coincidence and in fact count on these aftershocks to create the smaller branches of the tree.

Examples of these clean and create projects are; obscure landscaping (flowerbeds by overpasses and port-o-potties), starry night murals on the underside of a bridges, rock gardens by the tracks, etc. The possibilities are limitless and it is our goal to pursue all of them.

Also it cannot be stressed enough that Manifest Positivity is an art work in itself. But it is not so easy to predict the outcome. Our base hope is that through outreach the elderly, homeless, at risk youth, and the disabled; we can simply improve the standard of life to our maximum ability. Any noticeable benefit beyond our immediate intervention will be documented, deconstructed, and debated to determine what effect we are having on the public at large. This is more Goodness.

Pale Mystic Arts is the idea that if our cause is noble and pure, our possibilities are endless, and everyone wins.

Finally we come to Truth. The word and idea in itself is difficult to define and people are not quick to accept one's definition of truth over their own.

We say truth is trust.

After much discussion we decided Pale Mystic Arts will use our facility as a classroom to teach Astrology. Beyond the inaccurate horoscopes in newspapers is a profound and complex science that few are aware of. Astrology is the oldest system of thought that mankind has access to. It began at the same time farmers began using the moon to plant their crops and ancient peoples built religions around the movements of the sun through the stars. The gravitational forces of heavenly bodies control countless aspects of our lives and all of this has been translated and documented into a coherent system of thought. Symbols, table, charts, graphs, timetables, and calculators; these are the tools of the astrologer.

We chose Astrology because it basically sells itself. People are relatively quick to believe in Astrology or at least entertain the notion whilst being convinced.

Astrology has always gone through periods of exaltation and abrogation, of rising and falling in popularity. Currently things are no different. And depending on the recipient of knowledge is the reaction you'll get.

Astrology, in our opinion, is the quickest way to gain the greatest understanding of our lives and of our world. The Pale Mystic seeks those who would be receptive but are simply unaware. For immediate satisfaction of an uncertainty over the significance of Astrology view on-line the first third of the free film 'Zeitgeist.'

Astrology was also chosen because it functions as a doorway to other ancient methods of divination such as the Tarot, and to a lesser degree Palmistry. Also, the astrologer finds endless connections from the real world of practical affairs, to the less practical world of Astrology; like the calendar.

We will teach one hour courses in Astrology once a week. And from there schedule less frequent and more informative secondary courses.

Also, we will have Tarot days with free Tarot and Palm readings.

As well as poetry days that will end in poetry slams.

Perhaps even Creative Writing instructional seminars. Painting days. Jam sessions.

But all these days and courses will serve doubly as brain-storming sessions for more

Clean and Create or Humanity Outreach efforts.

All of these things I've mentioned will be put into a pamphlet for distribution throughout the community.

Money is to be spent on all the practical affairs Pale Mystic Arts entails; which is truly the area where our effort has currently fallen short.

We ask for $10,000 because of your 1 to 1 matching policy. We would ask for more but it seems like a shot in the dark that we can raise $10,000 ourselves. Being starving artists who work for free is not exactly a money maker.

But if you take the chance on us; we will too, and we will take that shot in the dark and make it hit the mark.

There is a map of the USA, in our minds eyes. Well. There are two. In one we see New England; the highway clusters and shorelines, purple, orange, and pink states. In the North East corner of CT is a great and dense and round tree growing from the otherwise lifeless map.

In the other vision is a map of the USA; the whole thing, just as lifeless and full of highways as the previous one. There are dozens of these trees. Some bigger than others. But all of them growing over cities filled Truth, Beauty, and Goodness; manifesting positivity. These are the Pale Mystified cities.

This is our vision.

We understand all the roadblocks we face. Here, we have come to you for help. You are doing a great thing by funding the arts in the way you do. Allow us to be agents of spreading it around. Your assistance, in our hands, is like a magical, excuse me, mystical bag of positive energy. We have the ability, foresight, and ambition to do great things with that bag.

With this help we can plant our grand design in Willimantic. We can document it, and offer this service to any other city capable of funding our work.  
We are willing to give %110 of ourselves. So please forgive any short comings of this proposal.

GOODBYES

There are no limits when one controls the real world with their imagination.

This cannot fail. We ask for your support reader. Throw yourself headfirst into charity. Actively pursue your three causes. Create art in every place no one will mind. Do. Do it for the Pale Mystic. He has done these things for you. Do it for everyone in the place where you live. Be an inferno, a landslide, a tornado, or a flood of positive action. No one needs to know you're a Pale Mystic. Though in time this will hopefully be easier and easier to determine. Manifest positivity at the cost of negativity.

We, many or few, who once more dare to live in a world purged of morality, we pagans in faith, are obliged to imagine higher creatures than man, but to imagine them beyond good and evil; to be compelled to value all higher and lower, existences as mysterious existences.

