 
RETURN OF THE PERENNIAL OPTIMIST

A collection of poems, songs, blogs, and shorts

By

Joshua S. Friedman

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Joshua S. Friedman on Smashwords

Return of the Perennial Optimist

Copyright © 2015 by Joshua S. Friedman

Thank you for downloading this book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated

All poems, songs, blogs, and shorts are the property of Joshua S. Friedman and may not be reproduced in any way.

All persons, places, and events depicted in SHORTS are purely the work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental

All BLOGS are purely the author's opinion and do not necessarily represent the views or opinions of createspace.com

Adult Reading Material

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For those I've wronged.

You know who you are.

****

Once more, with feeling,

" _The moment you try to be too creative,_

" _you open yourself to close scrutiny."_

-Chef Gordon Ramsey

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A BRIEF WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

Oh, hello again. I didn't expect to see you back so soon. I guess even the most humble of souls possess the heart of a poet. This marks my second collection of poetry, but not just poetry. I've also included a series of my more interesting blogs, and three previously released short stories. So kick-back, grab a cold one, and read whatever tickles your fancy.

Bon jour

Bon hui

Et, bon appetite

J.S.F

Feb, 2015

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

From the Leaves of the Epiphatree Vol. 1

ABC Bureaucracies

Blogged

Shorts

From the Leaves of the Epiphatree Vol. 2

About the author and other titles

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FROM THE LEAVES OF THE EPIPHATREE

VOLUME 1

INTRO

(VENGEANCE SPAWNING)

Once, when I was a boy

I witnessed a man carve his name into a tree

The man was of little significance

Some local fisherman, I think

The conifer, however

Was quite distinguished

And thusly being marked

So, made its mark on man

Disillusioned and offended

Damned this curse called man

From a small seed seething hatred

So spawned the epiphatree

Nurturing resentment

The tree cried out in anguish

And nature came to coddle

From all points they rallied 'round

And besieged the man amidst the forest

They cornered him into the dim

And tore out his naval

They nailed it to the bark

And made him walk-about

Circumnavigating trunk

Until his intestines coiled out

But, the man did not die

'Though stripped of all his power

Left out in the great-outdoors

The wolves came to devour

Baying, growling, snapping, snarling

Salivating foam

They stripped his flesh free from his bones

Ants burrowed in the hollows

Bees wove their honeycombs

Deer marked their territory

Pissing on the corpse

Squirrels guffawed in blithe

Skunks upturned their noses

So, let this be a lesson

Don't harm a living thing

Life is just perdition

Hell is the world we breathe

BIG BOMB CLOCK

Slow it down, child

Tip your hat a halo

Slow it down, son

What's up with the haste?

Throw your arms out

Swing around the circle

Pocket full of ashes and Amazing Grace

Turn it up, now

Ya'll are hard a' hearing

Turn it up, doll

Who says we're in pain?

Cry it out loud

Let's show we got the spirit

With a pocket full of laurels and amazing tits

Ticking down, now

Ain't no time for bobbles

Ticking down, now

Ain't no time for bliss

At the crossroads

I'm reaching for the rainbow

But, I'd settle for a dollar and a pound of flesh

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki takes a tumble

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki sets the pace

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki's not that humble

Doing what he can to see that you don't win the race

Slow it down, now

Listen to the rhythm

Hurry up, child

Wipe that off your face

Decelerating

Defamed for fifteen minutes

For a suit I stole from Midas and amazing taste

Crank it up, now

Ring around your rosary

Crank it up loud

We all fall down a mess

Accelerating

Let's roll down all the windows

Make ya holla' for a dolla' and a pound of flesh

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki takes a tumble

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki sets the pace

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki's not that humble

Doing what he can to see that you don't win the race

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki gets a fumble

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki takes the cake

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki's just an asshole

Doing what he can to see that you don't win the day

We only fight

Ourselves and time

And all we reap

Is what we leave behind

Fortune swings

Like the keening wind

Death is the door

That leads us here

Our clock winds down

The last grain of sand

This house of cards

Falls to the ground

Grrrrr, Rikki Tikki's gotta go!

Winding down, now

Gettin' kinda lazy

Slow it down, now

Ease up off that stress

Decelerating

Detained for fifteen minutes

For a song I stole from ABBA and amazing grits

Crank it up, now

'Cause ya'll are hard a' hearing

Shout it out proud

We're all a bit depressed

Accelerating

Let's blow out all the windows

Make ya holla' for a dolla' and a pound of flesh

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki takes a tumble

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki sets the pace

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki's not that humble

Doing what he can to see that you don't win the race

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki gets a fumble

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki takes the cake

Big-bomb-clock!

Little Rikki Tikki's such a fuckin' asshole

Doing what he can to see that you don't win the day

Big-bomb-clock!

Rikki Tikki, Rikki Tikki

Big-bomb-clock!

Rikki Tikki, Rikki Tikki

Big-bomb-clock!

Rikki Tikki, Rikki Tikki

Make ya holla' for a dolla' and a pound of flesh

Big-bomb-clock!

Rikki Tikki, Rikki Tikki

Big-bomb-clock!

Rikki Tikki, Rikki Tikki

Big-bomb-clock!

Rikki Tikki, Rikki Tikki

Make ya holla' for a dolla' and a pound of flesh

Big-bomb-clock!

Rikki Tikki, Rikki Tikki

Big-bomb-clock!

Rikki Tikki, Rikki Tikki

Big-bomb-clock!

Rikki Tikki, Rikki Tikki

Make ya holla' for a dolla' and a pound of flesh

THE BLIGHT (Pt. 1)

Cadaverous anathema, I feed on disaster

Slew the gods of ol' and now I seek a new master

Crestfallen at the foot of my own grave

Disembogued in dreck with a convivial laughter

Desquamating spawn so that they'll spread just like cancer

The fusillade strafes me down before I'm made

Foudroyant as a white dwarf

Foliicolous as a germ

As heteroecious as a hook worm

As malignant as a sperm

Vilified in effigy, immured in my castle

Petrified of change, execrated in lassitude

My banners set ablaze at my parades

The collop of the crop and yet I seek a new platitude

Ecstatically exanthematic, blotting all aspiring attributes

Confused, I stand alone in my own shame

Rapacious ebullition, the royal coxswain of carnage

I've peeked beyond the veil and now I seek a new horror

Hanging at the foot of my rear mirror

The adhominem to apathy, the visage of brackish

Within the mew of maudlin, apogee of the joyous

I've become the face of my greatest mistakes

Forsaken like a gangrel

Forgotten like a word

As immutable as a promise

As mawkish as a worm

As loathsome as a cur!

Acrimonious assassin, the kings of all tenesmus

Master of disaster and now I'm in need of assistance

One foot still warm in my own grave

The animadvert to reason, and apparently avarice

Cosseting the cowardly, the appetence to adjuring

My reflection stands alone in the rear mirror

Terrified of this and separation anxiety

Lived a whole life, now I got a new prerogative

Why am I so afraid of what I have to say?

Gaster of the grotesque, heir to the distressed

Master of catastrophe, the pearl of displacement

Forsaken at the foot of my own grave

Idea for a farce

How 'bout we never existed?

We both know I'm the blight

We both know I who stained you

I who stained you!

Consistently conspiring to cajole all for hiring

The couloir of the crevice, timorously eschewing

Gotta get myself out of this grave

The escutcheon of disgrace, enfettered in vile rage

Enigmatic eponym to malfeasance and outrage

Gotta dig out of this maze

The epitome of complacence, edaciously aphasic

Edentulous but gnawing at the foot of the miscreant

Confined by the shackles of my own dreams

The dictator of desiccate, the constructor of caducous

Convoluted by the disillusioned and enfanterible

Heartbroken, I stand alone in a grave for two

Idea for a farce

How 'bout we never existed?

This is all just too hard

I can't be the one who stained you

I can't be your blight!

ONE OF THESE THINGS IS NOT LIKE THE OTHER

Oh, I got the goose bumps

I got the shudders

'Cause one of these things is not like the other

A picture frame

A souvenir

A ticket stub

Some beloved keepsake

One of these things is unordinary

One of these things is beyond contrary

A whisper unspoken

A voice deep inside

Y'all just can't hear

And I cannot hide

I stand bereft

Torn and asunder

I just can't place it

One things not like the others

There stands a token

There lies a totem

Here winds a bridge

A path left untrodden

Lost and bewildered

My future yet uttered

My finger not on it

Something's not like the others

A long stretch of highway

Leagues of crops left to till

Meadows of heartbreak

Like none other

A music box

A neck chain

A carving upon a tree

Of some forbidden tryst

A forgotten vow

Some long-lost keepsake

A stain-glass mosaic

A fossil unfound

A legend disproved

A faith disavowed

One of these things is unnatural

One of these things is out of order

My road has changed

Abound, and betwixed

No mountain of sorrow

This valley can fix

You cannot deny something is amiss

One thing's not like the other

And I think I know what it is

Surmounted, I stand here

Isolated and alone

One thing's not like the others

And I've known it all along

One of these things

Is not like the other

Something's misplaced

Life's just a puzzle

'Cause one of these things is not like the other

HOW'S IT GOING, WALTER?

How's it going, Walter?

Are you feeling lucid?

Can we trace the path of where things got unclear?

Foggy minds equal shabby lives

Here, hold the wheel, I'm gonna' drive

How's it going, Walter?

Have you seen where I've been?

Is that a golden ticket behind your left ear?

Slogging through this murky mire

Still holding fast, I'll steer this ride

Can't stop the reveries in my brain

Come out, come out, I know you're in there

Thought I heard somebody in here

Such things I've seen but can't now un-see

Lost all about, I know I'm in there

My reflection I don't recognize

How's it going, Walter

If that's still your name

Do you know that I'm here, are you still insane?

What a travesty, this fragile bloodline

Knuckles gripping white, I consign my rights

Can't stop the reveries in my brain

Come out, come out, I know you're in there

Thought I saw something stirring there

Such things I know, but can't now un-know

Something vile just crawled out of this hole

See it still all writhe and wriggle with life

Watch it still, and thusly die

Walter?

Can you hear me?

Are you still in there?

What do you posit?

What do you suggest?

Are you still alive?

Are you somewhere else?

What's your remedy?

What do you prescribe?

Do you squeeze my shoulder, in form of eidolon?

Are you flickering the lights?

Are you looming on the lawn?

Is that your spirit lurking here?

Are you hiding somewhere else?

Do you even know you're there?

How's it going, Walter?

Can you hear me in there?

Are you now online, are you self-aware?

Reduced to this, corporal hardware

Teeth grinding dust, I'll take it from here

How's it going, Walter?

Good to see you again

Do you know your name, do you know the year?

You've been asleep for a long time

Can't stop the reveries in my brain

Come out, come out, I know you're in there

Thought I heard somebody in here

Such things I've seen but can't now un-see

Lost all about, I know I'm in there

My reflection I don't recognize

Can't stop the reveries in my brain

Come out, come out, I know you're in there

Thought I saw something stirring there

Such things I know, but can't now un-know

Something vile just crawled out of this hole

See it still all writhe and wriggle with life

Watch it still, and thusly die

I no longer rule my own life

INTERLUDE

(VENGEANCE SPURNING)

Once, when I young, and so unafraid

Men in red suits came marching in

They murdered our fathers

They raped all our wives

Such ghastly things

Can't be described

Once, when I young, and oh, so afraid

Of the monsters churning

Under my bed

Men in red suits

Came goose-stepping in

They pillaged and plundered

I hid under my bed

I saw my mother cowering there

As men in red suits marauder in...

My mother was bleeding, dying there

Yet, she hushed all my fears

And dried all my tears

She told me never to be afraid

Of things in the dark

'Cause they're in my head

She gasped, "Let go of those puerile things

"There's demons amongst us,

"Such creatures are real,

"Devils are draugers,

"The monsters are real"

I cried, and sobbed, I don't understand

She hushed me softly, "Yet, soon you will"

Once, when I young

And, oh, so unprepared

Men in red suits came trouncing in

They took my whole family

And all that I'd known

But, now I'm a man

Now, I am grown

THE BLIGHT (Pt. 2)

The horror, the agony

Wild imperceptions running rampant in my head

Convoluted reveries best left for dead

Stunning phantasmagoric vivid deceptions

I am the blight upon your skin

The suffering, the misery

Beyond this, I can't breathe

Disconcerting Holy-moly, amalgamative roly-poly

Thrashing out in caducity

Phlegmatic reciprocity

This is the blotch upon your skin

I am the blight that stains within

I can't be your blight

No, not again

I won't be your blight

No, not again

Do you feel this ripe?

Do you feel this writhe?

Do you feel this strife?

I know you felt us die

The aphasic of atrophy

Complacent to heresy

Wild ruminations peregrinating beneath this flesh

Minor myopic dichotomies relieve these sins

Still, I can't let go

Won't be resolved

This is all just so hard

I won't be your blight

Staining

Syncopating

Corrosive

Corruptive

Illusive

Allergic

Danger

Don't touch this

Just stay the fuck away

I can't be this

I won't be this

Elusive

Conductive

Caustic, abrasive

The fustian of silk linen

The miasma dissolves before mine eyes

Obfuscated, dwindling in dim light

I can't be your blight

No, not again

I won't be your blight

No, not again

Do you feel this ripe?

Do you feel this writhe?

Do you feel this strife?

I know you felt us die

Do you feel this ripe?

Do you feel this writhe?

Do you feel this strife?

I know you felt us die

Do you feel this ripe?

Do you feel this writhe?

Do you feel this strife?

I know you felt us die

I am the blight!

THE AGE OF LETTING GO

You had me

You lost me

Beyond this

I can't see

A new dawn

A bright light

So terrified

We're drifting apart

Where do we go from this?

This is not what we prayed for

Combined

Not willing to disjoin

But, at the age of letting go

We were

What we once needed

But, now I just don't know

Are we about to let go?

I had you

You won me

So hard to make clear

The blurry

I duck in

You dip out

The promenade

Was not ours

I thought I knew you oh, so well

You had to sprout

Couldn't hold you back

Gripping

Still holding tight

Don't want to believe

This our last fight

Ambivalent

Yet, joyous

Is this the best thing for us?

Oh, God, I just don't know

You've grown up

I've grown old

At the age of letting go

Disturbing

Reposting

Can't dam back the heartache

How do we smooth out?

When do you foresee an end to this draught?

Upsetting

I knew this

Walled-off

We blew this

We don't even speak anymore

What's the point of this?

Combined

Not willing to disjoin

But, at the age of letting go

We were

What we once needed

But, now I just don't know

Are we about to let go?

Is there a time in our lives

When we outlive the things we were?

Sure, we can talk it out

But, you're not who I was speaking to

Is this a lie?

We only fool our true-selves

Is this a lie?

Can we trudge on in silent Hell?

Is this how we die?

Reluctantly grasping at former shells?

Is this how we die?

All alone or lonesome together

I saw you

You smiled at me

I thought this

Eternal rapture

You doubted

I hesitant

Now you so delirious

What's this all about?

How's it all work out?

Combined, indelible

Not willing to disjoin from you

Stirring, reluctant

How can you be so sure of this?

How could I let go?

We were, and have been

What we've always needed

But, now I just don't know

The villain, so forth told

You're still gripping hold

Combined, incredible

We were inseparable

Vitreous, unreplaceable

My heart you held in trembling hands

How do we go on?

How can I look you in the eye?

Have we wilted so?

At the age of letting go

The villain is rising

The red dawn is blinding

Deceiving, corrupting

And still you think me him

If not for me

You'd still be drowning

And yet you unconvinced

You still see me as him

The protean is forming

Besieging, surmounting

The eidolon is rising

Still think it's me?

You had me

I earned you

We once were together

We still are

In spirit

You shouldn't

Go on like this

We once were forever

Still gathered in your Heaven

But that's not who I am

Combined, indelible

Not willing to disjoin from you

Stirring, reluctant

How can you be so sure of this?

How could I let go?

We were, and have been

What we've always needed

But, now I just don't know

The villain, so forth told

You're still gripping hold

Combined, incredible

We were inseparable

Vitreous, unreplaceable

My heart you held in trembling hands

I saw you

You smiled at me

Who would've known the villain rising?

A DESPERATE MAN BEHIND A NEMESIS MASK

Infect this mask!

Once, I came upon a gorge

It was so beautiful

I knelt too close I tumbled in

Entombed, forever there

Vituperated

I nestled

Ensconced in slumber's bliss

Ferruginous with patina

Dithering between consciousness

Flit, flit, flit like roaches

Eschewing from the herd

Desperately incognito

Deaf to the one true word

We flit, and flurry, scurry

Yoke of the living curse

Audaciously adorning

The mask of a nemesis

Febrile and delirious

I marched upon the tower

I disregarded white-flags

Rapaciously empowered

Forward, slouching onward

Husk of the ratoon

Vivaciously conquering

Fremitus in the womb

Flick, flick, flick

The light switch

Intravenously reviled

Upon a throne

Of trash heaps high

I consecrated bile

Flirt, flirt, flirt

Salaciously

Coquettish and depraved

The guise of a nemesis

Is now your best good friend

Beseeching alms of penury

I slogged upon the planes

Serial bars for vestment garbs

Pampered here in vain

Reposed here in anguish

Sedimentary immured

What the fuck does love want

I don't know

And perhaps I never will

Flit, flit, flit like roaches

Eschewing from the herd

Desperately incognito

Deaf to the one true word

We flit, and flurry, scurry

Yoke of the living curse

Audaciously adorning

The mask of a nemesis

Flit and flurry

Hurry, scurry

Pitter, patter

Worry, worry

Tear off this mask!

Precariously I journeyed

Into the new abyss

Without the fodder of thought

Adjuring the choir

Boutonniere of the brackish

Demurred to the one true word

Hopelessly I stumbled

Upon the carapace

Flit, flit, flit

Hurry, scurry

Wriggle, waggle

Pitter, prattle

Worry, worry

Rip away this mask!

Once I came upon the couloir

And gazed down at the Earth

It was so ponderous, so beautiful in its mirth

Wavering and reluctant

I did linger there

With great haste and hesitance

I removed my mask...

Removed my mask...

Removed my mask...

Removed my mask...

WITHOUT WORDS

Without words, you see right through me

Without words, you tear me apart

Without words, you drive me down

Without words, you break my heart

With just a glance, a cold shoulder

With just a look, your anger boils

With just a glare, you try and tempt me

With but a shrug, no semblance

Without words, you try and hold me

Coerce me and cajole me

Believing that this is love

Without words, you degrade me

With just a smile, I'm motivated

With just a kiss, I'm inspired

With just a touch, invigorated

With nothing, I'm entitled

DO YOU WANT SOME OF THIS?

So, you say that you've been drowsy how are you feeling now?

Can I get you a glass of water; can I interest you in a Black Cow?

What's the time from here to Tokyo, Athens, or Madrid?

Don't sugar-coat the ailments

Hit me doctor, I'll take it

Hitch up them slack suspenders; tighten the noose across your belt

Playing Star Wars with light sabers made from flashlights is just so juvenile

Cruising across the cosmos with a vagrant strapped upon my back seems so innocent

Brigadune, the lost platoon

Is it kicking in?

Do you want some of this?

Do you want more of me?

Do you want some of this?

So, you say you're lactose intolerant, is that a trite excuse?

I guess we'll find out soon, 'cause when you're not looking, I've been poisoning your food

You're so afraid of all that could be, and what have might have been

Godzilla's been banging at your window

You're at home but you're not there

Are you feelin' okay?

Do you want some of this?

Are you feelin' insane?

Do you want some of this?

Do you want more of me?

Do you want more of this?

Pellucid and admiring, juxtaposed with INTERPOL, you set up the rhyme-scene

Conflagrate, collaborate, elucidate, we ring around the merry-go

You sit there glaring at me with them pouty lips

What the hell, just get'r done, and let's get on with it

You say you're feeling sluggish, like you're not quite yourself

But from my subjective point of view, you're exactly as I left

Objectively vacillating intermittently

Clinging onto that celestial zodiac a-thumping

What's that ya say?

Are you feelin' okay?

A-thrust your arms out, hurray!

What a glorious day

Let's have a parade

Ha-ha

Abstract art is quite myopic, of that you're plainly sure

Can I get you another shut-her-up, can I offer you an _hors d'oeuvre_?

Shh, shh, shh

Be cool man

All right, it's clear

Waft a whiff off of this

Yeah, you know you like it

Do you want some of this?

Do you want more of me?

Can you handle this mess?

Can ya square up with me?

Do want more of this?

Do you want more of me?

Do you want some of this?

Do you want more of me?

Do you want some of this?

Do you want more of me?

Do you want some of this?

INTERLUDE

(VENGEANCE SEETHING)

I'm sure you've heard

The chief is dying

According to the Cree of our forefathers

A great battle must commence

A testament of blood and conquest

To determine the next Caesar

I lurk upon the cusp of battle

Those reveries return to me

I cerebrate about the forest

And a man's naval nailed to a tree

Memories of the red-coats flood my mindscape

I still see my mother writhing there

Then the blow of warfare's horn returns me to the mire

The warrior calls upon me

I face my destiny

Against great dread and dissolute

I race into the breach

Blinded by the mist

Lost among the screams

I stand upon a mountain of foes

Slain in righteousness

Anger throbs within my bones

Hate pumps in my veins

I've sampled the briny taste of blood

Now, there's no stopping it

Vengeance now besieges my soul

All hail to the king!

AT THE SPEED OF STORM

Ain't no time for introspection

Ain't no reflection in the window

There's no truth in isolation

We only see just what we want to

Some say joy's just an aspiration

We each choose our paths to Hell

Deleterious

Lascivious

Why do we only hurt ourselves, and the ones we love?

Sometimes I can't meet my gaze in the mirror

Some mornings I just hate myself

But, when heartbreak comes

At the speed of storm

Like a surreptitious, wily maelstrom

And all our thoughts are left for naught

And all we can do is self-criticize

But, no one knows me like the rain

Everyone knows that I got the blues

You just can't hide when truth is truth

We demoralize

Self-ostracize

Indulging in

Hitoxcides

Still plodding on come Hell or dawn

And yet we only hurt the ones we love

And yet, heartache comes at the speed of storm

It tears us down like a malicious maelstrom

And all we can do is sing in tune with the blues

But no one knows me like the rain

Oh-oh-ooh-ooh

Why aren't we satisfied with our own lives?

Oh-oh-ooh-ooh

Why do we covet what we don't even want?

Oh-oh-ooh-ooh

Why can't we move beyond what we've done?

Oh-oh-ooh-ooh

Why do we only hurt ourselves, and the ones we love?

Sometimes it's hard to get clean after the horror

Sometimes we just wish that we'd forget

But, there's no glory in history's trespasses

And if we don't remember, then who the hell will?

Pernicious

Insidious

Why do we murder those we love?

And civil wars come

At the speed of storm

Ravaging

As a malicious maelstrom

And still we slog on

Just like the seasons

When all I can do is hold to you

But, no one knows me like the rain

Revolution comes

At the speed of storm

When we've had enough of

Killing those we love

And stop targeting

Our brothers at arms

And all I can do is hold on to you

Why do we only hurt ourselves and the ones we love?

Oh-oh-ooh-ooh

Why aren't we satisfied with our own lives?

Oh-oh-ooh-ooh

Why do we covet what we don't even want?

Oh-oh-ooh-ooh

Why can't we move beyond what we've done?

Oh-oh-ooh-ooh

Why do we only hurt ourselves, and the ones we love?

Migraines come

At the speed of storm

Like gloomy overcast clouds

Hanging above

Life patters down

Without a sound

And all I can do is hold on to you

But no one knows me like the rain

Cantankerous

Malodorous

Why do we only hurt ourselves, and the ones we love?

Oh-oh-ooh-ooh

Why aren't we satisfied with our own lives?

Oh-oh-ooh-ooh

Why do we covet what we don't even want?

Oh-oh-ooh-ooh

We just can't we move beyond what we've done?

When heartbreak comes at the speed of storm

Heartaches come

At the speed of storm

And all I can do is hold on to you

But, why do we only hurt ourselves, and the ones we love?

VALHALLA LOCKED

Valhalla

I'm striding forth

Open up

Your frothy doors

I've lived a life of sin and remorse, repentance

Don't deny my slice of pie, my eternal bliss

Come striding forth, inhale, and say

Open up

Before I huff and puff down this gate

I've reached beyond these mortal bounds

I seek a new path, now still treading on

That golden choir don't sing for me

Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this gate

Valhalla

I'm coming home

Valhalla

Please, wait for me

I've peeked beyond the pale

But, it's left me so cachectic

I linger on the shoreline

Not drifting in

Oh, St. Michael, put down your stave

Open up these gates

Or I'll keep banging

Valhalla

Open your arms

Valhalla

Welcome me home

In the garden we pick turnips all the live-long day

Muscles hard, still plodding on, temporarily enslaved

Wipe that grime from your face

We've still got crops to till

Sodoriferously concocting, we march against the hill

I prance upon the cusp of a bright, new dawn

I eat two bits of food, and then I'm full

Oh, what a glorious day

To ride upon the breath of death to my open grave

Valhalla

I'm coming home

Valhalla

Don't you recognize me?

I was the warrior

I was the slave

I was the pawn

I am the drone

The clone

The infant you left upon the lawn

I've lived a life of sin and remorse, repentance

Don't deny my slice of pie, my eternal bliss

Come striding forth, inhale, and say

Open up

Before I huff and puff down this gate

I've lived a life of sin and remorse, repentance

Don't deny my slice of pie, my eternal bliss

Come striding forth, inhale, and say

Open up

Before I huff and puff down this gate

I prance upon the cusp of a bright, new dawn

I eat two bits of food, and then I'm full

Oh, what a glorious day

To ride upon the breath of death to a new grave

Oh, St. Michael, put down your stave

Open up these gates

Or I'll keep banging

Valhalla

I'm coming home

Valhalla

Don't lie to me

Valhalla

Open up your door

Valhalla

Is this worth dreaming?

Valhalla

Open your arms

Valhalla

Is this for real?

Valhalla

I've waited so long

Valhalla

Don't lie to me

THE BLIGHT (Pt. 3)

Chiggers crawling in

I feel you writhe within

This blotch upon you skin

I am the blight that stains within

And still you are

Wondering if we could be

And still I feel I am

The burden weighing you down

The blight!

The blight!

They all point at me

The blight!

The blight!

They all chastise me

And yet I'm still alive

The anathema of the decade

The hit-list of your parade

The blotch upon your skin

The blight that stains within

The blight!

The blight!

They all laugh at me

The blight!

The blight!

Can't understand me

The blight!

The blight!

They all point at me

The blight!

The blight!

They castigate me

I am still alive

Seed of milk worm

Eye of newt

Wing of horned bat

Milk of goat

Meat of grouse

Meal of soiled grass

Drink this drink

I present to thee

Dink this drink that I present to thee

You are now what you have eaten

And so I turn like a worm in sand

Forgive my sins and believe again

Can't silence me with indignities

The truth shall soon prevail

Label me the enemy

I've yet my tale to tell

The blight!

The blight!

Cursed altruist

The blight!

The blight!

Machiavellian

The blight!

The blight!

So labeled the true villain

The blight!

The blight!

Years wasted denying

The blight!

The blight!

Sown the seeds that till within

The blotch

Your rash

Your strife

I am the blight

AT LAST, A SPADE

At last, a weary wrangler moseys into a run-down saloon at the edge of the desert

His chapped and blistered lips haven't sampled the sweet nectar of water in eons

Granules of sand caught betwixt his eyelids, he blinks in disbelief at the mirage before him

Sandpaper rakes across his desiccate oculars

He swallows, and his tongue works across his esophagus like a lathe through soft pine

Shambling forward, the wrangler staggers into the tavern

Exhausted, he wavers whilst pushing open the double-swinging doors

He surveys his surroundings like a mercurial mountain cat

But, all is dark and dim inside, all but the bar and the barkeep polishing crystalline mugs

He nods and winks, "C'mon inside, pa'dner. Sit right down and pick ye'r poison."

"No thanks," replies the wrangler. "I'd rather just play cards."

There, in the corner shines down a spotlight over an ovoid wooden table

Several scruffy n'ere-do-wells sit around dealing fates

He says, "Pardon, gents, but I've much gold. Mind if I join in?"

The chair pulls out before him, the seat reserved for him

He pops a squat, the deal is drawn, all participating ante in

The flop is made

The dealer drawls, "Action to the left."

A round of knuckles rap against the oaken furnishing like crows pecking at road-kill carcass

The turn then made, and so, of course, the first bet placed

The others gripe and moan,

"I'm out."

"I fold."

"Fuck this shit, I'm goin' home."

Lips quivering as a slobbering bulldog, the gambler stares him down

The dealer mutters, "Sir, shall we continue?"

The wrangler glances at the cards curdled in his grasp, and then down at the board

Just one card of cups, just one royal flush of swords, just one suit of armor to behold

Cashing his chips forward, the wrangler replies, "I call, I'll see it, in fact, I raise."

The gambler's bottom lip trembles again, his gaze dithers back and forth, "Screw it, I'm all in."

The wrangler matches the wager, but it won't buy him what he wants

The dealer smugly reminds them, "Just one castle left to show."

Smirking, the wrangler replies, "I'll call that bluff. If I were you I'd fold."

But the gambler doesn't

He won't, or can't, of that's not plainly sure

He's tethered like the Hanging Man; he's bridled like a goat

The wrangler knows this, because he feels the same burning within his soul

But neither would back down, relent

So the wrangler follows suit, what else could he lose?

Finally, the river seen

All rides upon rattled breath

The faces now are shown

The wrangler takes the pot

Angered, the gambler pulls a revolver, and presses it into the creases of the wrangler's forehead

The gambler growls, "If I were you, I'd be on my knees and saying my prayers."

The wrangler sneers, "If you were me, I'd still have a soul to sell."

He wraps his desiccate lips around the barrel, and mumbles, "Let's make an even trade."

At last, a glimmer of hope

At long last, a spade

MAELSTROM STIRRING

I feel a maelstrom riding in

And it chills me

To the bone

A frost upon the midnight wind

Callused

A promise broken

I drift upon the evening mist

Stirring

Pinning homeward

Lost among abysmal dredge

Brooding

In the forest

Alone, I stand, a child

A brick, a cliff, a mire

Eschewing, like a coward

A drift, a rift, an island

ABC BUREAUCRACIES

INTRO

(SEIZE THE CHILDREN)

Once, the children our only hope

Our greatest natural resource

Now the Indigo our largest threat

They have sprouted too far

So I utter with no remorse

Strip away their dignity

Rob them of all drive

Seize the children short and tall

Seize those infants fat and slim

Seize the children all

Drown them in the river banks

Choke them with the reeds

Wisk away their decadence

Cajole them with our greed

Snatch them from their nursery cribs

Grab them from their mother's breast

Take them from their schools and homes

Steal them from their humble nests

Seize all the dimwitted

Seize those in the dark

Seize those with a spark of brilliance

Seize the children all

WITH SWORD AND SHIELD

Your media jargon's all a lark

You know, right-wing

Left-wing

It's all the same thing

Republicans and democrats

Lobby for rights

Like immigration and abortion

Leave us alone, son

It's not your choice, hon

Platonic moguls

Spread pandemic fear

'Cause now Ebola's gone airborne

With sword and shield in hand

Alone I make this stand

Flaming arrows strafe upon the Promised Land

ABC bureaucracies and socialists

Are out of hand

Hive-mind automatons

Rule with iron glands

Chem-trails streak across the sky just like-a lightning

It's so frightening

Unappetizing

We got smallpox mixed with SARS and the swine-flue

So, where you run now?

So, what's the good news?

We scour the streets and slog for peace just like deadbeats

Like drugged zombies

While industries' elite

Filibuster civil rights

They strive to take away from us

With sword and shield in hand

Alone I make this stand

Flaming arrows strafe upon the Promised Land

ABC bureaucracies and socialists

Are out of hand

Hive-mind automatons

Rule with iron glands

Paul Revere was never true to the zeitgeist

One by land, two by sea

But, at least he got that right

They're on a mission of premonition fused with DARPA

Let it go, hon

What's the harm, son?

Common-core math is what they're teaching

And now they're preaching

Your kids need Aderol and not parenting

With sword and shield in grip

Alone I make this stand

Atomic bombs rain down upon the Promised Land

ABC bureaucracies and socialists

Are out of plans

Hive-mind automatons

Rule with iron hands

The Catholic Church has gone bankrupt

Ring the carillon, put your hands up

Pleading for alms and supplication gets us no where

Just ask the folks all on Welfare

They're on a mission of devastation to control all nations

By a third-party elect to divide all creation

Misogynists and hedonists unite with atheists

To snap the olive branch of peace

And now the eagle's turned sideways

Piss-off a liberal, buy a gun

'Cause now martial law is the rhyme of the season

With sword and shield in hand

Alone I make this stand

Flaming arrows strafe upon the Promised Land

ABC bureaucracies and socialists

Are out of hand

Hive-mind automatons

Rule with iron glands

Sticks and stones may break bones

But I will not pretend

That nothing's wrong

And still live on without a plan

Dilution of the population is at hand

With sword and shield

Together

We shall make our stand

With sword and shield in grip

Alone I make this stand

Atomic bombs rain down upon the Promised Land

ABC bureaucracies and socialists

Are out of plans

Hive-mind automatons

Rule with iron hands

Sticks and stones may break bones

But I will not pretend

That nothing's right

And still live like it all began

Eradication of the populace is at hand

With sword and shield

Together

We shall make our stand

DISSENTION IN THE APES

Snuff out the American dream

Long-live the original scene

Look alive in the tail of a comet escape

Disband periodical news

Hook-line that political view

Run tell that to your mother irate

You say you hate one another

You say your soul is fake

All bear down from dissention in the apes

Trade all your wonder and glory

Inhale that volatile scheme

Emerge from the purling waters berate

Cast off your willful splendors

Sow the seed of dominate

Trim the tree of wisdom satiate

You say you hate one another

You say your soul is fake

All bear down from dissention in the apes

You say your life is empty

Since the extinction of grapes

Approaching dissention in the apes

What'd you think would happen?

We saw it on TV

You thought it a distraction

But we all know we're diseased

I got your history lesson

And you won't like it one small bit

A glimmering reflection

Of what we can't repress

You say you hate one another

You say your soul is fake

Kill all but our brothers

Who's that, I can't tell anymore?

Joy-riding in a noctivagant song

Nescient to allocations

Nexus to projected storm

Look alive in the tail of a comet alarm

You say you hate one another

You say your soul is fake

All bear down from dissention in the apes

You say your life is empty

Since the extinction of grapes

Approaching dissention in the apes

You say God is cruel

I think the world's in worse shape

All bear down from dissention in the apes

Dissention in the apes

HARBINGER OF MISERY

Cool, calm, somber, collected

Cry-out true hatred for me

In a time of innocence lost

Immured in a shallow grave

Ward off the unobtrusive

Fend for your self-defense

Common ground is so illogical

The aftermath is the pretense

Swing around

Merry-go-round

A-here we go, now

Tip-top and sound as clockwork

Our time keeps ticking away

Countdown to revolution

Two minutes to doomsday

Lick your wounds with sweet elixir

Wring the puss out from the pain

A quick fix that's inoffensive

An open forum for the plague

Scream aloud

Bawl your eyes out

It won't do a damn thing

Bring it on

Then shake it off

Quoth the harbinger misery

Shout aloud

Cry your eyes out

It won't do a damn thing

Sing along

Then forget this song

Quoth the harbinger misery

Damn...

Damn it all

And patrol the throne

Mindful of thorns

And how they prick

Cry havoc

Let loose the dogs of war

Here comes the second renaissance

Bestial laws are overthrown

Kaleidoscopic introspection

Far too inflected to atone

Might as well never have lived

Swing around

Merry-go-round

A-here we go, now

Scream aloud

Bawl your eyes out

It won't do a damn thing

Bring it on

Then shake it off

Quoth the harbinger misery

Shout aloud

Cry your eyes out

It won't do a damn thing

Sing along

Then forget this song

Quoth the harbinger misery

Such a hollow, shallow victory

Sing along then forget this song

Scream and shout, then bawl your eyes out

Sing along then forget this song

Cry aloud

Shriek it out proud

Four-faced and sharp as diamonds

Bevels razors from the edge

Allured into altercations

Frayed strings pulled from the thread

Bittersweet

Yet, so mellifluous

Caterwauling to the misled

Burping up righteous gut-rut

Minefields of the head

Come quick with retribution

Iconic invalids

Integrate into the system

Online and self-aware

All's clear for brave-new Technophiles

But all you Luddites

Bring on out your dead

Sing along then forget this song

Sing along then forget this song

Sing along then forget this song

Sing along then forget this song

Scream aloud

Bawl your eyes out

It won't do a damn thing

Bring it on

Then shake it off

Quoth the harbinger misery

Shout aloud

Cry your eyes out

It won't do a damn thing

Sing along

Then forget this song

Quoth the harbinger misery

V.M.P.

Heathens flock to me by five-fold

The encomium of sin, that's me

Oh yeah

But it's so hard to pay attention

Amidst the clucking of headless chickens

In false tongues they all do yammer

Their drivel freezes my perception of utopian society

Doesn't matter if they flit like roaches

Don't matter if they dance like ants in their pants

Borderlines are so bucolic

Gather 'round I've got the prescription

I'm rockin' ADD, babe

Three sheets to the wind

Tailspin

Of virtual

Monogamous

Philosophy

They all glare at me like cyborgs

The king revenant is here, right here

So sad to see you in such a stupor

But so glad you're finally at wit's-end

Thought you could outrun the conundrum

And awake the basilisk with baby's breath

It don't matter where you started

But it sure as hell matter's where you land in the end

Drunkards, fools, and workaholics

Gather 'round 'cause I got your prescription

I'm rockin' ADD, babe

Three sheets to the wind

Tailspin

Of virtual

Monogamous

Philosophy

A-here we go, here we go, right now

Y'all gather 'round, get real close, now

A-listen up, listen up right, now

Let's get it right, get it right, right now

Imbeciles encroach like marauders

Martyrs crawl out from under their rocks in the sand

Glee-club kids chant their final chorus

Debutants remove their mercury-lined hats

It don't matter where they came from

Doesn't matter if they're headed East or West

It don't matter if you're a recovering fiend or an addict

'Cause I've still got your prescription

I'm rockin' ADD, babe

Three sheets to the wind

Tailspin

Of virtual

Monogamous

Philosophy

I'm rockin' ADD, baby

Still three sheets to the wind

Tailspin

Of virtual

Monogamous

Philosophy

THE DREADNAUGHT TYRANNY

So, I heard you got government assistance

How's that going for you?

They turn you out homeless, yet?

Make it illegal

And then take your children away

Stick you in a hotel

Full of bedbugs

And the kinds of stains only black-lights see

You pray and plea

Why, oh me?

Who will save me from DHS and VOA?

All bow down to the dreadnaught tyranny

Oh, what's that?

You got your grower's card

You puff and cheese that sweet laboratory weed

I thought weeds were from the Earth

Not in-vitro test-tube flora

Doesn't really matter, though

'Cause when you're chilling in your crib

Rolling your prescription

That's when the _Stasi_ storm in and rape you hard

And then you'll cry

Why, oh why

Oh, poor me

Who will save me from CBS and MTV?

All hail the crown of the dreadnaught tyranny

What's that?

You still hold onto hope and the belief everything's gonna turn out fine?

What's wrong with you?

You think they care about you?

They don't care about you

They've got kill-switches

Internment camps

And death-panels galore

They got plans for you

The kind including mass graves

And forced inoculations containing cancer viruses and mercury

And altering the very notion of reality into singular hive-mind existence

So get with the program all you illegitimate sons and daughters

For the day of reckoning has come

All serve the will of the dreadnaught tyranny

What's that up in the sky?

Is it a bird or a plane?

Naw man, that's a mother fuckin' drone

Soon they'll blackout the skies just like locusts over Egypt

And it don't matter if you turn-tail and run

'Cause they got surveillance cameras lining all the streets

And able to pin-point a needle in a high stack from way up in the stratosphere

Via high-speed global-positioning and thermal imaging

Targeting civilians, returning veterans, and telephone-terrorists

Hell, they even got the Mafia promoting solar panels and windmills

While they price-gouge and over-tax coal burning plants

So come on and put your game-face on

For this is the dawn of done

All bend the knee to the dreadnaught tyranny

You hear that?

The plodding of boots marching through the streets?

They're comin' for us, man

They're comin' for you and me

And when they get here

I don't know what they're gonna do

I mean, I kinda know, I got a good idea

But I don't wanna know

Ya know?

But I'm not sticking around to find out

So TTFN, losers

Beware the crown of the dreadnaught tyranny

I-O-I

Brag about your psychotropic trophies

Cavalcade of crimson carnage

A triste with a gypsy

To have my fortune read

She looked upon in earnest

She stared at me in awe

Hanging upside down from the gallows

She flopped the first card

She said, "Boy, you're in some kinda trouble"

"And I can't protect you from the wrath"

"But, if you wish"

"I can give a glimpse"

"That might help you"

"Save you from yourself"

I implored her to shroud me

Conceal me from the dark

And if she could, I hope she would

Count the numbers off

Smiling edentulous

She bobbed her tawny head

She opened her withered, wrinkled lips

And this is what she said

Why, oh, why?

One, two

Kick off your shoes

Let your hair down

If you got the blues

Three, four

Mortar and doors

Make poor blockades

Think I'll just take yours

Five, six

Listen to this

Let's take a ride

Down the River Styx

Seven, eight

Hurry up and wait

With a measure full of madness

And an ounce of fate

Nine, ten

Bread and skin

Done lost my way

Gotta do it all again

I, oh, I

Have lost my way

I, oh, I

Have lost my way

One, two

Bottle of booze

Pockets full of rockets

And the clock on snooze

Three, four

Borders and floors

Fashion safe walls

May I please have yours?

Five, six

Microchips

Heaven full of bedlam

And a Dixie's bliss

Seven, eight

Wake up late

With a mind full of madness

And a nightmare's hate

Nine, ten

Flipper and fin

Done lost my way

Gotta do it all again

I, oh, I

Have lost my way

I, oh, I

Have lost my way

One, two

A-heave and hew

Thimble full of hope

In a stock-car stew

Three, four

Twigs and s'mores

Yours look better

Think I'll just eat yours

Five, six

Tipper and brick

Green as grass

And a pixie's kiss

Seven, eight

Dilate

A measure full of madness

And a string of tape

Nine, ten

To my chagrin

I done lost my way

Gotta do it all again

I, oh, I

Have lost my way

I, oh, I

Have lost my way

Yee-haw!

Ten, nine

Snifter of wine

With a heart of glass

Placard neon-signs

Eight, seven

Cups of eleven

With a dash of truth

Atlas holds up heaven

Six, five

A-juke and jive

With a smidgen of courage

And cups of nine

Four, three

Hide and seek

With a belly full of yellow

And a taste for sweets

Two, one

The cards are done

Make ya holler for a dollar

And a good shotgun

I, oh, I

Have lost my way

ONLY THE LIVING

Get ready for attack!

Grrrrr!

We're so in denial

At the end of the path

Can't see in front of us

Or behind the curtain

Dogmatic dilemmas
Conventions ransacked

The mark of the beast

The cat in the hat

Oh!

Empathy unrequited

Polygamous mass

In a void of this and that

At sail without mast

Humdrum and avarice

A polyp on the cast

The third-eye now calcified

Deliverance disbanded

Oh!

I can't believe what the televangelists tell me

I can't perceive what I dream

I can't account for all the deception I've swallowed

I can't even tell if I'm still me

We're so engaged in nothing

Do you even have to ask?

Can't reap four-feet in front of us

Or disarm a map

Don't weep for the departed

Don't even shed a tear

Don't worry

You'll roll the dice soon

Only the living mourn the dead

I can't believe what the archdiocese tells me

I can't dissociate glee from screams

I can't forget all the terror I've witnessed

I can't even tell if I'm still me

We're so deep in excrement

We can't even breed

Two stones for a bush

And a sow for five beans

Absorb lacrimation

Ingesting balls of snot

Don't mourn for the dead

'Cause the dead don't weep for us

No, the dead don't cry for us

I can't believe what the pundits tell me

I can't accept that which I've seen

I can't condone another moment of silence

I can't even tell if I'm still me

Am I still me?

Do I even breathe?

NEARER THE MARK

Prodigal redeemer of chaos

Anarchy rules the chimps

I got a barcode scanning vengeance

And a dime-bag for your sins

I'm the one you've been yapping about

Can you guess my name?

I'm bartering skulls, emeralds, and gems

And I'm pawning blame for shame

Some call me the star of the morning

Some call me the angel of light

Some call me the eater of worlds

Well, that ain't me

But that's nearer the mark

Poster-child for contraception

The saint of derelicts

I got a switchblade manufactured in China

And fashioned from ivory

I'm the one you know by name

But never speak aloud

Playing Russian-roulette with a Bengal tiger

And craps with arsenic

Some call me the son of mourning

Some call me the negative-man

Some call me the prince of lies

Naw man, that ain't me

But that's nearer the mark

You all got my number

Grab a ticket and stand in line

Trample over those in front of you

If they chant, "Murderer!"

Well, never mind

We all got the sickness

Hawk, and sell, and buy

Caught up in a consumer's nation

Conquer and divide

And as the worm turns

So does my brand

Famine and pestilence

Over all lands

Virologist chief of decadence

Body-guard to all wimps

Foster-dad of shadow

Empirical capitalist

I'm the one you all prattle about

Can you guess my name?

I take pleasure in gutting you

Outside and within

Some call me the sultan of sulfur

Some call me the king of flies

Some call me the great-new-hope

Well, that ain't me

But that's nearer the mark

VIRULENT

Breaking news coming out of Chicago, Illinois

Twenty-seven people have died from a new flu virus over the past week

The victims were mostly young children and the elderly

While this seems like an isolated incidence, for now

Doctors around the globe are urging citizens to take the proper precautions

And make sure everyone receives their inoculations

The Surgeon General went on record stating, "This is one nasty bug"

" _You don't want to catch it"_

Eugenics birth a pathogen

Raise it in a vial until its germs sperm kids

Over-crowded, the tube seems so small

So they spread out from a crystalline jar

Seeking new farms just like the pilgrims of old

Bacterial and communicable

They devastate the natives there

Bury the bones and then plant their own flags

Wiped from the soil are the indigenous

But from the ashes arise a new dust

This just in from Atlanta, Georgia

Emery Hospital in corroboration with the Center for Disease Control

Have issued a nation-wide alert

About a new drug-resistant virus that's been sweeping around the country

Reports at this time are inconclusive

But the Surgeon General went on record today when he urged the public

" _Not to worry, but take the proper precautions around those infected"_

The seasons pass like hours in the day

The carrion are happy as summer

If they'd only learned their history

They'd foreseen the woe that's befallen them

It starts as any other household ailment

But soon they all expire in droves

Their picket-signs surmount the CDC

Scientists and doctors are rattled like birds in a cage

For once in a generation springs forth a plague

Genetic immunity is their one, sole saving grace

This just in

Reports are flooding in from around the country

From New York to California

This new flu-strain is untreatable

I repeat, untreatable

Border-control and DHS's attempts at quarantine have failed

The virus has jumped as far as Moscow, Sydney, Istanbul, and Paris

Hospitals around the world are closing their doors

And the military is burning bodies in the streets

If you're hearing this and you're not infected

Stay indoors, I repeat, stay indoors

Mad-scientists create an antidote

And fill a syringe with sterile hope

Inject duress into a "volunteer"

Vivisect side-affects, and then cheers their own beers

But they forgot that one unspoken law

There's only one

And it's "Don't play God"

Hello

If you're out there

If anyone's out there

I'm talking to you through the National Emergency Broadcast System

I...

Well, I don't exactly know what to say

The footage you saw before the feed cut-out is accurate

Ninety-seven percent of the Earth's population are dead

The rest have gone...

Well, they've gone mad

They're killing each other

Raping each other

They're even eating each other

If you're out there

If anyone's out there

And I pray to God that there are

Then this is it

I mean...I really think that this is it...

The endgame

Our extinction event

CROSSING THE RUBICON

We're hellions on a blood-hunt

A firestorm of privilege

Knee-deep in perdition

Toe-to-toe with Pakistan

Go wait at the mire

I'll meet you there

We'll carry what truths are ours to bear

Sing softly, son

They'll find you out

Polk had it right when he said

"54 40 or fight!"

We're nature's proof of havoc

Nurture's back-up plan

Hip-deep in frivolity

At odds with Kazakhstan

Go wait at the coast

I'll meet you there

We'll brings what bags are left unfettered

Chime humbly, son

There's no way out

Like Washington across the Delaware

"54 40 or fight!"

A raft aloft

A lifeboat at sea

A burning star

Dead centuries

Bedraggled crops

Miasmic air

Dissention amuck

Sloven captivity

I stand at the breach

Come find me there

We'll exchange gifts

And Chloroform

Pandemic terraform

Hindsight of a psychic

Rudimentary physicist

We're reeling forth and sway

Baptized agnostics

Clamber down the cliff

I'll meet you there

We'll plow what seeds

That are left unscathed

Come quickly now

Slink softer still

Aurelius had it right

"54 40 r fight!"

BLOGGED

UNLEADED

Monday, July 29, 2013, 3:47 pm

Does anyone else know how egregious gas prices are? No _seriously._ The price per barrel of oil fluctuates at a daily rate. Why? Because the so-called-powers-that-be profess it to be so. Liberalists and Green-Parties wave an admonishing finger at the very notion of drilling on American soil (with the exception of Alaska), thus keeping us from weaning ourselves from the suckling teat of foreign oil. When the price per barrel goes up, not only do gas prices rise, but _everything_ becomes more expensive. Oil is used in damn near everything; from the production of plastics, factories, textile plants, farms, butchers, and even bakers. Everyone everywhere relies on oil in some way, shape, or form. Interesting side-note: How come when the price of gas goes down, the price of a gallon of milk holds steady at the price it was raised from the previous one. People gripe about how much gas is. But at least there's a fifty-fifty chance gas will be cheaper tomorrow (statistics are complete bullshit; 7 out of 15 people know that. When you break it down, everything is fifty-fifty; either something will happen or it won't). That gallon of milk. Those flashy, new kicks. A pack of smokes. All that other stuff doesn't vacillate in price like gas. It just continues to escalate.

This is just a theory; I have no proof or evidence to back this up, but I believe that one of the main reasons gas prices undulate like the tides is so that when we drive past a gas station and see unleaded advertised for $3.86 a gallon, we smile and say, "Oh, look, gas went down." Then we cruise into the packed station at two-miles-an-hour, wait for fifteen minutes before _actually_ getting to use a pump, and fill-up. I don't do that. But, apparently a lot of people do. I buy gas when it's slightly more expensive; it's an even trade-off for the time I save. In and out. Easy-peasy.

There's a scene in the movie, "I Am Legend", where Will Smith is driving down some street and passes a gas station that advertises a gallon of unleaded for over $6. And I'm guessing that was _before_ the-end-of-the-world-as-Will-Smith's-character-knew-it. Just my opinion, but I really don't see someone changing the gas sign of their own volition as New York turned into Hell-in-a-hand-basket. Six bucks for a gallon of fuel, and look what happened. I'm not saying there's any correlation between soaring gas prices and an impending viral apocalypse (fictional or otherwise), I'm just saying.

TO WRITE WELL

Saturday, August 3, 2013, 12:34 pm

In the book, _Hideaway_ , Dean R. Koontz (via the phlegmatic author, S. Steven Honell), says that, "To write well, one ought to possess a monk's preference for solitude. In isolation, one was forced to confront oneself more directly and honestly than possible in the hustle-bustle of the people world, and through oneself also confront the nature of every human heart."

I half-heartedly agree with that. Sure, writing takes up a lot of time. _A lot_. And the old axiom holds true: Those who write about life, have no time to live it. And those living it, are too busy to write about it. In addition, I often enjoy spending the final hour of every night just sitting in silence; contemplating. But if I didn't wrench myself away from the keyboard (or sometimes the ol' fashioned pen and notebook), I'd never have anything to write about. I'd have no characters to write because so much of what I write is influenced and inspired by other people and my experiences with them. "They" say to write about what you know. Well, if you don't live your life once in a while, then you won't really know anything. Will you? Except, you won't even know that you don't know anything. And that's a sad-sad state of affairs.

If writers want to delve into the depths of the human condition, perhaps they should repatriate from the monk-like mews to the land of the living.

Post-script: Why the hell did they change _Hideaway_ so much when they made it into a movie? Hollywood (I'm sorry, but if you want me to refer to you as L.A., you better take down the Hollywood sign and replace it with one that reads either LOS ANGELES or LA), completely butchered a unique piece of masterfully-crafted fiction.

My only critique of the book is at the beginning, when the car is sinking to the bottom of the river and Lindsey is thinking about the past five years of her life. I've been in car accidents, and I've nearly drowned a handful of times. In that penultimate (which is a word I learned from Mr. Koontz), moment, you're not thinking about your life. You're thinking about ESCAPE. Or, you're summoning your last bit of strength for on final furious burst of hope to break the surface of rushing waters before your lungs explode in your chest. It can be difficult to get your bearings under rapidly churning water. Sometimes you don't even know you're up-side-down until some Good Samaritan strolls along and pulls you out by your feet.

#@$%&*! CARDS

Saturday, August 10, 2013, 11:46 pm

What's the deal with places like Quality-Way and Speedmart (the names of these actual locales have been changed to protect the innocent)? These convenience stores (sometimes), slash, gas stations (sometimes), slash, liquor stores; and these special cards they press on people? I, for one, don't have a Speedy-card (shit. I said it. Oh well, the cat's out of the bag). But, I frequent my local spots. And even though my ID doesn't scan (due to a crease in it), buying adult products is never a problem because most the employees know me. Not by name, mind you. They always ask, "Got a #%@ card?" I say, "No." They ask, "Why not?" I reply, "Because I don't have one." They ask, "Would you like one?" I politely decline. At which point, they get defensive, and ask, "Why not?" To which, I reply, "Because I don't want one." Then they pester me while dragging out the time it _actually_ takes to ring up my order.

One time, I purchased something off the roller-grill. The clerk asked if I wanted two. I thanked her, but declined. She said, "It's cheaper if you buy two." I inquired how much it was for one. She said, "A $1.49." I asked how much it would be for two corndogs (or whatever it was, I can't recall). She replied, "$2.00, out the door." I asked her how $2 was cheaper than $1.49. She seemed flustered; agitated.

But, I digress.

One time, on a whim, when the clerk asked me why I didn't want a *#%@& card, I wiggled my fingers in the air, and eerily proclaimed, "Because, I know the truth. _Oooh_!" I didn't really wiggle my fingers. I wish I had. The clerk replied, "What, the government?" (Why is the government the first to be blamed for _everything_? I'm sure there's a reason). I nodded, letting her lead the conversation. Have you ever done that before? Just made some random, obscure statement, and then went along with whatever the replier said? It's fun. I highly recommend it.

Anyway, three (not one), clerks responded in a cacophonous chorus, "The government don't check that." "It took three years for @$#%#@-mart to get these cards made up, if that tells you anything." "You don't need and ID." "We probably get about fifty John-Does."

Their resounding reassurances did not assuage me in the least.

To be honest, I was previously under the conspiratorial theory that Big-business was in cahoots with the government to keep tabs on everyone: Where they shopped. What they bought.

Think about it; what if you were the type of nefarious n'ere-do-well, who didn't have an address, bank account, valid ID, phone number, or credit card? What if you were hired under the table, and didn't pay taxes? Tracking what liquor store you frequented, and at what time, would be of great benefit to both corporate fat-cats and the _federales._ It's called meta-data.

But that can't be right. That's just nervous nonsense. Right? It must be. Who would possibly be keeping track of how many gallons of milk you buy; other than that particular store, of course? Hey, it's great re-stocking intel.

Did you know, you get points for buying alcohol, but not tobacco?

This is truly a confusing age in which we live.

BRIGHT IDEAS

Wednesday, August 14, 2013, 11:58 pm

Bright ideas are like snowflakes. When we want them to descend upon us in a full-out-maelstrom, they merely flutter about. When our hands tied; _then_ the deluge falls. And each and every (bright) idea seems as uniquely crafted as semi-frozen globs of precipitation.

The other day, I was at one of those huge-mega-monolithic-superstores; back in the bottle-return department. I go in the middle of a work-day, when it's far less crowded. Anyway, I'm there all of eight minutes. I know because I timed it. I had to. Technically, I was on my lunch-break. But, is it technically a break if no lunch is involved? Alas, I don't know. But, I deviate.

The self-service-six-item-or-less-U-scan-line was backed up all the way to the frozen-food section. If I had to guestimate, I'd say the line was fifty-feet long; the wait, undeterminable. So, I ambulated down the rows of tightly packed consumers. You know how there are certain huge-mega-supercalifragilisticexpialidocious-stores that advertise: If more than two people are standing in line, we'll open another register? Well, this wasn't one of them. So, I walked all the way down to the last (open) lane; three people in front of me. They had fully stocked carts. I had two bottle-return coupons. But, none of the other lines were moving, so I figured, "What the hell, I'm a patient guy -- sometimes." I waited in line for fifteen minutes. I know, because I checked the time on my cellphone. Technically, I had seven-minutes to return to work.

When I finally got to the cashier, I said, "You guys should really have one of those U-scan-bottle-deposit-return-machines back in the recycling area. She said, "Most people go to the U-scan." I replied, "Normally, I would." Then I pointed out the U-scan line, far off in the distance, still backed up to the frozen-food section; still unmoving. I told the cashier, "If there was a U-scan-bottle-return-slip-machine in the recycling area, then those with bottle-return slips wouldn't have to stand in line, and the lines wouldn't be so long."

Brow furrowed, bottom lip tuckered up like a bulldog's, she grunted, as if such a thought had never occurred to her.

Why would it? After all, the longer we stand in line, the longer we're subjected to glossy magazine spreads, Clorox to-go-sticks, the latest candy concoctions, and the more inclined we are to spend just a _teensy_ bit more.

Still, I wish one of those mega-mart-super-whole-sale-stores would put a bottle-slip-return-machine in the _actual_ recycling area.

I don't know much about meteorology, barometric pressure, or the crystallization process that makes each snowflake indelibly different from the next. But, having a bottle-slip-return-machine in the recycling area sounds like one hell of a bright idea to me.

WORLD WAR-Z HIGHLY UNLIKELY

Saturday, August 17, 2013, 1:05 pm

I, for one, love the zombie genre. But let's not get carried away.

My brother says there are two kinds of people: Those that wake up every day, praying for the zombie-apocalypse, and those who don't.

I'll have to admit, last summer, when that bum ate some guy's face off, and there was a rash of flesh-eating-bacteria, and the CDC was posting zombie-apocalypse-preparedness-bogs; I quavered at the very notion of eternally living in an episode of _The Walking Dead_.

First off, _true_ zombies aren't dead. Nor do they eat the brains of flesh of the living. According to Voodoo (which originated in Jamaica/Haiti), zombies are people (not corpses), that are so deep under a trance it only appears they are dead. And they do not hunger for the flesh of the living; they merely carry out the wishes of the person who hexed them.

There is folklore of zombie-like-creatures such as ghouls and draugers, but they're not exactly zombies.

According to Hollywood hokum, there are two kinds of zombies: 1.) The slow, shambling cadavers of those who died. And they feed on brains. 2.) Some sort of mad-people-like-virus that turns us all into flesh-craving cannibals.

Movie and television depict such catastrophic pandemics as signaling the end-of-times. This is false.

For one, let's set aside the fact that some two-hundred-plus-pound-floppy-corpse could run-us-down in the street, or that the zombie of some punk, delivery boy could tear you to pieces. A zombie would possess no more or less than the proportional strength or speed of its living counterpart.

Here's another thing, _every_ time you move, you're stretching and tearing muscle fibers. _Every_ time you move, you're shedding microscopic skin cells and hair follicles. When muscles rip, lactic acid builds up, creating new muscle fibers. Sure, you lose skin cells and hair, but more grow back. But, not on a dead person. If you're a zombie, every time you move, muscles and ligaments tear, but do not grow back stronger. Every time you move, skin and hair flake off you like dandruff, but once again, do not grow back. Even if you're the most gorged ghoul on the block, you'd still fall apart in a manner of weeks.

And what about when winter comes? Main-stream-media would have you believe that if a zombie freezes, they instantly lash-out when thawed. This notion is insanity. Have you ever put a bottle of pop in the freezer, and then forgot about it? What happens? The water molecules expand until they crystallized (sort of), and fracture. This is also why cryogenics is complete malarkey. The same would hold true for any zombie, especially if their cells didn't undergo mitosis. _Every_ molecule would fragment and fracture, including the brain. What's the best way to kill a zombie? Take out the head or brain. Well, if a zombie's brain freezes and shatters due to the changing seasons, then all you have to do is hide out in your shelter and wait till the metaphorical dust settles.

To summarize, if an apocalypse of the living un-dead ever did happen, it wouldn't last long. The walking cadavers would naturally fall apart in a manner of weeks.

No, Mother Nature would never be so kind as to grace us with a zombie-apocalypse. Instead, we have things like Ebola, AIDS, H1N1, and pig-bat-camel-flu.

Yeah us!

DHS

Thursday, August 22, 2013, 3:42 pm

A friend of mine was telling me about how DHS (Department of Human Services, _not_ Department of Homeland Security; why there's two DHSs I have no idea), was screwing her out of food-stamps. Over the last eighteen months or so, DHS has been incorporating new rules and guidelines for those they dole out welfare-rations to. Why they're allowed to change such rules without prior public notification is anyone's guess. I have theories. But sometimes silence is the best card to play. That's a good rule for life, kids. Allow me to elucidate. If you had a bridge-card, you would be subjected to account reviews every six months. This is not something DHS does, this is something they want _you_ to do, and if you don't, you will experience a delay, or refusal (depending on their new bi-laws), of benefits.

Anyway, DHS screwed up my friend's paper-work, thereby decreasing the rate of monthly benefits from $180 to $59.

I'm not like most people. I don't eat that much. At most, I eat twice a day. More than that leaves me feeling logy. But to my friend, $59 doesn't last an entire month. At most, it buys her two weeks' worth of groceries, and that's predicated on the stipulation that she only eats once a day. Seriously, $40 buys me two week' worth of food. Once again, I don't eat that much. But try living on less than $60 a month, I double-dare you.

My friend said she tried calling DHS, but the phone number never rang through. Interesting side-note, the particular branch of social services handling her case is two counties over. Why? Because the government likes to make things as confusing as possible.

So, my friend, a productive, working member of society, had her benefits cut due to a clerical error, and her case worker will _not_ return her calls.

Perhaps, this a scenario you are all too familiar with.

Do not distress. There is _one_ sure-fire way to get a DHS case worker to call you back, though I only recommend it as a last resort.

About five years ago, I too applied for food-stamps. At the time, I was working at a local sub-sandwich-shop. I won't say which, but I am a sandwich artisan. When I was first hired, I was told by the manager that they thought someone was stealing, and they wanted new, trust-worthy employees. I was hired on the spot. Two-and-a-half months later (and before I could claim unemployment), I was fired for theft. Apparently I was their culprit after all, though the thievery transpired well before my employment. I think the manager was the one to blame all along. I, the unsuspecting patsy of corporate theft, could have fought such slanderous allegations, but fuck it, it was Subway. Who wants to work there for life? Hopefully not you.

Anyway, I too applied for food-stamps, and I too was given the run-around until the point where I wanted to just say, "The hell with it." DHS dragged-ass on my benefits. So I called and left a rather nasty message, saying that I was starving and would soon resort to violent thievery. Within twenty-four hours, my so-called case worker called back with a snide retort.

He said my benefits were disqualified because my previous employer wouldn't sign a piece of paper. Of course he wouldn't. For two straight weeks I went in to my previous place of employment to get the boss-man to sign off on my paper work. But he wouldn't. He was never there. I left the forms. But he never filled them out. Why would he? After all, I was the one he tried to frame.

In the end, I just said, "The hell with it," and got another job. Then I got a second job. People, jobs are out there, they're just the ones nobody wants. I don't know why. The vocations that seem the worst always pay the best. I have a disgusting job, and it pays well. Not as well as it could, but I digress. I guess _actual_ labor isn't worth the pay-off to some folks.

_Anyway_ , the reason pissing of your DHS case worker will guarantee a call-back, is because the people working there are the kind that _love_ to rebuke anything you say. Those folks are often mean-spirited and condescending. A few years back, when my girlfriend and I started living together, her DHS case worker wanted _my_ personal financial information. I wrote them a letter stating that I refused to disclose any such information because I was not the one seeking assistance. I appended the letter with: "I now consider this matter to be closed. Any further attempt at collecting any financial or personal information will be construed as harassment, followed by legal action on my part." Two days later, the case worker called, demanding to speak with me. I reiterated my letter. She said, "DHS is changing their rules. Some people live with their girlfriends, boyfriends, and baby-daddy's; trying to scan more benefits." I held my tongue from responding to her slanderous insinuation that I was a "baby-daddy." Nor did I relay to her that neither me nor my girlfriend had any children, nor were we planning to in the immediate future.

Yesterday, I bumped into my friend and asked if DHS fixed her problem. She said when she finally got ahold of her case worker, the case worker told her that it was not a mistake. Her benefits had been decreased from $180 to $59 a month. And she had to make-due with that. When she told me this, I pictured her well-fed, government-compensated, case worker with the receiver pressed to a maniacal grin.

Sure, we're all broke as hell, but do we really gotta be such assholes to each other just because the so-called powers-that-be _say_ it's our job?

BUGS

Wednesday, September 2, 2013, 11:29 pm

Hate is a strong word that I don't often advocate. But there are only two things upon the face of God's-green-Earth that I wholesomely detest. One is taxes, the other bugs. Bugs are _everywhere_. Currently, they outnumber us. Always have, always will. We can never get rid of bugs, not really. Sure, we spray our toxic chemicals around our domiciles, but that only deters the little critters. By-the-by, did you know it is a federal offense (but not enforced), to use pesticides in a manner otherwise directed? It says so on the label. Most people don't know that because they don't bother reading the directions. Then they wonder why their bugs aren't going away. Sure, there are all-natural home-remedies. Most hokum. Others disputable. But some do work. For a time. The thing that people forget is that insects have shorter life-spans and faster reproductive-cycles than damn near everything else on the planet other than unicellular organisms. Which means they evolve immunities and natural aversions to certain substance.

In 2005, a group of scientists and entomologists conducted a study. They wanted to know why German cockroaches ( _Blatella Germanica_ ), were no longer being duped into scuttling into those fancy, glucose lined Roach-motels. In 2010 they deduced that German roaches had lost their sweet-tooth. No longer were those six-legged-disease-spreading-vermin attracted to the gossamer glow of sweet saccharin. That was a closed experiment. This is three years later, in the world, a much larger laboratory.

Bugs don't think. No really. All they know is instinct and the one questioning doubt that befalls all beasts of such nature when encountering a foreign object: Can I eat it? Or will it eat me?

Face it, we eat bugs. In some cultures it's considered a rare delicacy. Living from place-to-place, and having access to PXs (pretty much a mini-mall upon a military base), virtually anything was accessible. Except precious, precious plutonium. Just kidding. I've sampled chocolate-covered-crickets and caramel-coated-caterpillars. They're not bad. Slightly crunchy with a bitter-sweet-earthen-aftertaste.

Statistics report the average human consumes (in their sleep), five spiders a year. Yup, you're snoring away, mouth open, and a curious arachnid skitters down your esophagus. Ever wonder why you wake up in the middle of the night and your throat feels itchy, but you're not sick?

Let's say, you buy some fruit. You discard the peels in the trash. A day or two later, you have fruit flies. Why? You didn't have fruit flies before. It's because the eggs are already inside the skins. If you purchase your food from a corporate chain, and had a fresh orange or grapefruit for breakfast, guess what? You also ingested _Diptera Tephritidae_ larva. That's why supermarkets keep their produce under fluorescent light; it keeps the eggs from hatching.

Don't worry, it's all protein and no fat.

Yes, insects outnumber us at a staggering rate.

I eat bugs. And I'm proud of it.

What are you doing?

TO WRITE WELL Pt. 2

Sunday, October 13, 2013, 11:57 pm

I've been reading and reviewing a lot of books on Smashwords.com lately, as now is the time where I'm in between writing. I read free books mostly. Why not? Most authors who publish something for free are novices just trying to make a name for themselves. Why not give those email authors and thoughtful bloggers a chance to have their voices heard? The thing with most free eAuthors, is they lack proper editing. Sure, their stories are entertaining enough, but (for whatever reason), didn't have their eBooks properly edited. I myself go through a book literally dozens of times before publishing, and still I look back and cringe; pondering, if only I could have written then as I do now. That's the big thing here. If you want to be a writer, you gotta work at it. But I'm skewing slightly off tangent here.

As Heath Ledger's indelible portrayal of the Joker proclaimed, "If you're good at something, never do it for free."

But even the ol' drug dealer's axiom holds true to this day, and is fastidiously adhered to by businessmen of all calibers: Only the first one's free. After that, it's gonna cost ya.

But just because you're going to depart on your voyage into authorhood doesn't mean you shouldn't take the time, effort, and sometimes fat-stacks, to make sure your masterpiece is as tight and polished as possible.

I see too many writers using the phrase "it was", not only in sentences, but also at the start of paragraphs. "It" is unclear to the subject. Overused, it incipiently becomes confusing and even worse, lazy. Used sparingly, "it was", can have a profound impact. Furthermore, _never_ conjoin "it was" and "to be", in a sentence, as "was" is the past-tense from of "to be". Essentially, coupling the two is redundant.

I read far too many, "there was", "it was", "he was", "she had", "had been". It's passive voice. The phrase, "had taken a seat", isn't nearly as powerful as, "then he sat with a plop, and dust swirled about his pear-shaped frame". He had caught should simply be, he caught. So on and so forth.

I know, it sounds anal, but little details determine whether your reader gambols gleefully through pixelated pages, or totters among a sea of verbose jargon.

Don't get me wrong, it's impossible _not_ to use "was" and "had". Still, overuse is trite and lethargic. Often we say, "Screw it. I like it. My friends like it. My family likes it. So what do I care if someone I don't know thinks unkindly of it?"

Let's face it, going over and over and over something is like boring a nail in your head when only a screw will do. Is that too esoteric? Sorry. Anyway, I myself face the very same problem of overusing "was" and "had". And the last edit of anything I publish is me tediously reading (not scrolling), through my document and eliminating as many of these pesky buggers as possible. Here's why. "John had on denim shorts. They were ripped and faded." Isn't nearly poetic as, "John wore denim shorts frayed and tattered where his boney knees protruded".

Say it once, and say it well.

That's enough free advice for now.

That reminds me, if I review your book and it's not sterling, don't be all like, "Screw that asshole, what does he know?" I'm just offering a bit of _free_ advice. And as crafters of wordsmenship, aren't we all looking over previous material ('cause let's face it, we've _always_ been writers of something), and said, "You know what, I think I can make that a little better."

BOTOX

Wednesday, October 16, 2013, 12:23 am

Has anyone heard of this new super-Botox they discovered?

Where do I begin?

First of all, these so-called scientists didn't just "discover" this new hybrid of _clostridium botulinum_. Okay, right there, _botulinum_. Doesn't that sound suspiciously like botulism? If you don't know what botulism is, open a book. No, don't just Wikipedia that shit. Apply yourselves, people.

The word Botox isn't a word at all, its short for botulinum toxin. That's right, toxin. Botulinum toxin stems from a rod-shaped obligate anaerobe. Oxygen is poisonous to its cells. When oxygen is introduced, like say, when you inject botulinum into your lips, the anaerobes catalyze a paralytic enzyme. That's why you can't move your lips after a procedure. This new Botox secretes a neurotoxin so powerful, the smallest of micrograms could...well, you've heard the news.

Botox originated when some guy you've never heard of (but could easily research), tried to home-cure ham.

Let's jump to the side for a second. The reason pork is forbidden by those of Jewish faith and practices is because way-way-back-in-the-long-long-ago pork was virtually impossible to prepare without risk of falling ill. And back then, when one grew sick, they usually died.

Back to the here-and-now. After a time, those meddlesome scientists harnessed the power of those precious, precious anaerobes. They derived a method of culturing _clostridia_ in TSC ( _tryptose sulfite cycloserine_ ), environment with less than 2% oxygen. Some mathematical, bio-chemical formula, where the Botox you shoot into your face is "relatively" harmless because it's fabricated in a laboratory and studiously scrutinized with test and control experiments until the point _they_ deem something that leaks paralytic perspirations as, "safe for consumer consumption."

So, let me get this straight; scientists who've been tinkering at a molecular-level with something they _know_ secretes neurotoxins just haplessly stumble upon a super-deadly version of it? And then, in order to keep people safe, they announce this discovery and declare it a world-wide secret?

People, open your eyes. Something nefariously shady beyond my comprehension is a-foot.

CURSE WORDS

Saturday, October 19, 2013, 12:20 am

It's true. It's finalized. It's legit.

Cursive is no longer being taught in public schools. As for private institutions, time will tell.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. At first I thought, "That's ludicrous. Yet, another fine example of our tax dollars at work that seem to dissipate into thin air."

But, what with modern publishing relying on technology, and Luddites fearing learning that cursed script; do people need to know cursive? The short answer -- yes. How else are you going to sign your name? With an X? I shudder at the very thought of the repercussions of such lethargic penmanship.

Does anyone still write in cursive? Hell yeah. I do. All the time. In fact, I, like most writers, have notebooks chock-cull of scribbled and scrawled glyphs only discernable to me.

Think about this, if you had a diary (the contents of which you wanted to remain private), then wouldn't it benefit _you_ more if the only one who could read it was you?

Instead, most people hurl their most intimate cerebrations into hyper-world-wide-main-stream fodder and should be so lucky as to have their peers pass over their posts, pix, and selfies in ennui.

Leonardo Da Vinci wrote backwards, up-side-down, in loops, broken pieces scattered among notebooks, and encoded.

And yet, we think we know all of his works?

Sorry, was I rambling again?

Anyway, what do I think of schools no longer teaching cursive?

I predict in ten years, handwriting will be nerdy. But not in the cool way. In fifty, only the elderly shall possess such skills (if their arthritic hands manage). Something the Neo-punks poke fun at. I bet they'll even have some slang term that associates the decrepit with cursive. Something like, "Look at the 'ol scribbler (scrawler or scripter).

All I can say for those poor souls no longer receiving their right-due-proper education we all were granted as youths (unless your parents step in), "I know something you don't know. Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nahh!"

Seriously people, is handwriting something we really want to become a dead language? What if our beloved grid goes down?

TO WRITE WELL Pt. 3

Thursday, October 24, 2013, 1:11 am

I go through five phases when writing a book.

  1. THINKING - You gotta think about your story; mull it over, jot down notes. Basically, you want to be able to watch your story in your head at any time; just like watching a movie.

  2. WRITING - Only when you not only know what you want to say, but how you want to say it, I write a book in its entirety. I know it's tough. Just do it. You're gonna edit it later. This stage combines a bit of reading, thinking, and editing, but bear in mind, this is still writing. When finished with your masterfully crafted piece of wordsmenship, sigh and take a break, though we're not done yet. Far from it, in fact.

  3. READING - I can go about two weeks (tops), before my fingers start twitching, and I long to scrawl a short, poem, song, or even a scene from an up-coming novel. During that time, I read about three to six novels, depending on their length. Fiction. Non-fiction. Poetry. Prose. News articles. Doesn't matter. Point is, I love to read nearly as much as I long to write. Whilst reading, I keep a notebook and a pen handy. Anytime I come across a word that I don't know, I scribble it down. But, not just words I don't know, I also jot down words I _think_ I know, words I know but don't use that often, and even quotes. I also study the way other authors write. I note appealing phrases, and though I don't use them verbatim, I'm greatly inspired by other authors. But, that's the point.

  4. ERUDITION - In case you didn't know, erudition means a period of deep (sometimes theological) learning/studying. After I have my vocab sheets from the books I just read, I alphabetize my words, go through the dictionary, and write down the definition. I find this method far-more effective than simply trying to memorized a myrmidon of words. I also use this time to research things. Let's face it folks, if you wanna be a writer, ya gotta know what you're talking about. And that means research.

  5. EDITING - This is by-far the most tedious and pain-staking tasks of all. You have to sit down, and read through your novel paragraph-by-paragraph, line-by-line, sentence-by-sentence, word-by-word. If you followed these instructions properly, this should be more than a few times you've read your own book. And let's face it, how many times do you really read a book? If it's simply amazing, at most, twice, or once a year as some eccentrics do. You can pay for fancy-shmansy editors, and I suggest you do (just for professional feed-back). In the end, as exasperating as it may sound, you'll want to make the final edit yourself. Why? Because it's your book, damnit! Don't you want it to be the way you always pictured it in your mind?

That's enough free advice for now.

Take it or leave it.

BREAKING GOOD

Friday, October 25, 2013, 1:25 am

Sure, people have heard of breaking bad. No, I'm not talking about the critically acclaimed show. Although I, myself am a fan. The definition of "breaking bad", is basically, to become bad. Not to break the habit of being bad. Which, believe it or not, some people I've talked to thought it meant. But has anyone ever heard of breaking good? A quick Catholic-death-bed-rites-confession, the ol' flick of the switch, and presto, boom-o, bang-o! All your sins are forgiven.

A merry-right-bit-of tripe that is.

That might be your angle, but that ain't God's angle. At least, that's what the Jehovah's witnesses pounding on my door proclaim.

First off, you can't be forgiven by no preacher-man. Only you can allow yourself to be forgiven by God, and then humbly beg the pardon of those you've trespassed. Quite often, our olive branches are swatted to the ground in disgust ('though easily understandable). And we hate ourselves. For a long time. Even if we're forgiven by those we've wronged, somehow, we still can't let go. But, that's not bad. In order to better ourselves we must learn from our mistakes.

Yeah, yeah, Walter White's a right-cool-mo-fo. His pictures and headlines swamp the news, diverting our attention from real issues. But is that really what we should be focused on? Entertainment is meant as a form of escape, yet how we drown ourselves in its drivel.

This imitable character, this sharpened foe, this reverse Robin of the Hood, who steals from the rich and stock-piles spoils to his spawn.

I personally believe that stealing bread is justified if it's to feed your starving family. But should murder, deception, and peddling upon the ineptitude of the disenfranchised be tolerated in similar circumstances?

I don't know. I suppose that depends on your particular predicament.

Where'm I going with this? I don't know. Maybe putting on glasses, shaving our heads, and pruning our goatees looks cool. And phony-funerals are always fun. But do we really want to emulate a fictional drug-dealing-mass-murderer?

CHARACTER

Sunday, October 27, 2013, 1:22 am

They say you can tell a lot about a person by the shoes they wear. More to the point, volumes speak of the choices they make. Most people pick their own kicks, ergo much is revealed about the choices of a particular individual by their footwear.

Choices are what make characters interesting, particularly, bad ones. Having things forcibly thrust upon a character is trite and derivative. They need to be faced with decisions. They need to take matters into their own hands. But better yet, more often than not, they need to take the wrong path so they can walk away from it (hopefully), a little bit wiser.

People need to be tossed outside their comfort zone. Only then do we see the world (and thusly, ourselves), for what it truly is -- undeniably imperfect. Forever flawed. And then we strive to do better, if only for a short while. Some stick with it; achieving new goals every day. Others seem content lethargically complacent (is that redundant?). Inevitably, we all return to ash. So, to each his/her own.

Psychology teaches we're all products of both genetics and up bringing (nature/nurture). Perhaps we should add a new category: advertisement.

The other day, my girlfriend started a rant about, "Wouldn't it be great if there weren't any commercials?" A brief and poetic enough statement if one there ever was. I said nothing. 'Cause when truth is truth, there ain't nothing to be said. But she probably felt abashed by my silence and then proceeded to defend her statement which rotated back to how we do, in fact, need advertisements.

That's how _they_ trap us, with circular logic.

So now we're back to needing, wanting, coveting, buying, disposing of...and on and on it goes.

It's so hard to recycle when the city waste-removal-workers can regulate what you can and can't put in the recycling bin. Everything's recyclable. Now, they've got these large, grandiose containers. Do they still studiously scrutinize every bit of food-waste, soiled toiletry, stained effeminate hygiene products, and other assorted...wait, that's trash, not recyclables. Oh, that's right, even trash can be used as a source of bio-diesel fuel. Just my personal opinion, but I regard burning our waste as a power-source (in regulated doses, mind you), as a fairer alternative to burying it or jettisoning it into space.

Sure, there's no way either of those two alternatives could come back and take a royal bit our of our collective asses.

They say you can tell a lot about a consumer by the brands they purchase. But I say, much more is learned by observing what they _don't_ buy. People who don't buy useless crap usually don't get baited into corporal entrapments -- usually.

There was a time when we didn't need to purchase goods or services. We built our homes to our liking, not to socialized regulatory commissioned standards. There was a time when we didn't have to shop for garb and produce. Believe it or not, once upon a time, we did things for ourselves, and had no need for outsiders telling us how to run our affairs.

I say, wouldn't it be grand if we reverted back to when we didn't _need_ to buy anything?

I think that would instill much character within us all.

SHORTS

CHIGGERS

" _I...I finally deciphered their language. All of it. I read their book...Mr. Chambers, the first page is just a collection of English words with their own translation. But the rest of the book...the rest of the book -- it's a cookbook!"_

-Damon Knight

"What's the last thing you remember Lieutenant?"

I awake sitting in a dank, windowless room. The slight thrumming and erratic flickering of a single fluorescent light illuminates from above. The light pierces my oculars. My head's drowsy and my muscles are as slack as dead trout. I think I've been drugged. I try to massage the throbbing in my temples, but my hands are restrained. The slight rattling of shackles reverberates within the hollows of my head, like thumping speakers. I feel dirty, greasy, like I haven't showered in days.

"Do you know where you are?"

No. Not really. What happened? Was I in an accident? Is this the hospital?

A stout man with glasses, broad shoulders, and a stiff back (like his posture supported by a broomstick shoved up his anus) glares at me. His narrowed brows furrowed, bottom lip protruding, like a dour bulldog.

"Lieutenant, can you hear me?"

I nod and my stomach flutters with nauseous butterflies with every minute motion.

With a burly, hairy finger, the man pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, and asks, "Tell me, lieutenant, what's the last thing you can remember?"

Why does he keep calling me lieutenant?

He pulls something out of his shirt pocket. A burning light beams directly into my eyes. I try to flinch, but the force of pudgy digits keep my eyelids from closing. His breath reeks of coffee and cigarettes.

I try to pull away, but handcuffs restrain me to a black, tabular table.

"Wh...what's happening? Where am I?"

The man (who I'm certain is no doctor) clicks off his little flashlight, but iridescent sun-spots still haunt my vision. He rubs his sweaty chin, clears his throat, and asks, "Can you tell me your name?"

I can, but the title, lieutenant, doesn't fall from my lips. "Scott Riley."

"Good." He scrawls something on a note pad he fetched from his shirt pocket. But it's not a shirt, it's a lab coat. "And how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three," I reply.

"Very good lieutenant." He smiles and his face folds into a sudoriferous collop.

Besotted butterflies bounce capriciously around my stomach. I've been detained. And I have no idea why. "Did I do something wrong?" But I fear I already know the answer to that.

He crosses his arms. And with the stoic passivity of a police detective, he asks again, "What's the last thing you remember?"

I try. "Nothing," I reply.

He glares at me. His blue-eyes are as patient as glaciers. Donning a fake smile intended to comfort me, he says, "Try harder."

So, I do. Images of Kate's lithe face and flowing auburn-hair fill my mind. Warm, blinding sunlight. The cabin. That sultry scent of wet trees and campfire smoke. The crashing of rolling breaks against sand and stone. I almost drowned in Lake Michigan -- twice. And _they_ were inside me. _They_ were inside us all; scurrying and burrowing. I want to explode out of the manacles, this seat, and scream, "Oh, God! Oh, God! They're inside me! _They're_ inside us all!" But I can't. I feel dizzy and slightly nauseated, but otherwise vibrating with a pleasant buzz. Damn, they had me on some good shit.

Brow wrinkled, he asks, "Remember anything?"

But he already knows the answer.

I nod, and a bit of drool drizzles down my chin. I can think. I'm aware. But my body is not my own.

He taps his pen on his notepad, and for what seems like the longest time, it's all I can look at. He proffers another artificial smile to put me at ease, and says, "I'd like to take your testimony now, lieutenant, if that's okay."

Don't I need a lawyer? After all, I'm not entirely sure why I'm here. Instead, I nod again and the saliva runs down the side of my neck. For what seems like an eternity, it's all I can think about, it's all I can feel.

"Then please lieutenant in your own words, describe the events that occurred on August 16th of this past year."

What year? What events? Small pellucid insects. Chiggers tunneling through flesh and marrow. My brain's plagued by a whirlwind of fragmented cerebrations, but the only image on my mind's drive-in theater is of Kate's hair; like autumn leaves. Then suddenly and inexplicably, hatred and anger overtake my soul, but my body's as placid as Play-do. A febrile sweat seeps from my pours, drenching my jumper, causing me to shiver all the more. My vision blurs; head reels. The cuffs seem to pincer into my wrists, and the chain restraining me to the shiny, black desk grows shorter. I can feel them crawling inside my stomach. I lurch forward to retch. Instead, words (not vomit), spew forth, and I recant a story that I don't even believe. "We were all up in Tawas, in a cabin on the shore of Lake Huron."

"Who was there?"

Drops of sweat glissade down my follicles like hockey players gliding through ice. "Me, my girlfriend Kate, a couple of her friends, their boyfriends, and my brother, Jared." I just realized my mouth is numb, but the words flow from my aphasiac lips.

The man coerces his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a pudgy, hairy digit. He smiles, and says, "Please, continue."

"It began late on the first night. We were all just sitting around, drinking, playing cards, when Daphne starting coughing uncontrollably. You know, like when you accidently inhale a wad of spit in your mouth, and for a couple minutes you just kind of choke on it? She rushed off to the bathroom. A couple minutes later she was screaming."

He scrawls something, and for an eon, it's all I see; that magnanimous pen coasting across lined paper, recording my every word, as if they forever scribed in some Great Book of misdeeds.

"And...and when I went in there, she was completely hysterical, unresponsive. I kept asking her what was wrong. And she just kept shrieking, and clawing at her hair. The others came in, and you know, they tried to calm her down. I stepped back from the situation to try and assess it from another angle."

Why am I talking like a cop? Why is my face _still_ so numb? Why am I slobbering like a rabid cur? Why doesn't this bald, greasy asshole with his indelible notations wipe the dribble streaming down my chin, or at least, offer me a bib? Why am I so lucent? So coherent? And yet, I can't force my corporal form to move?

A bright light like old movie projectors flickers before my eyes.

"Go on."

So, I do. "There was something in the toilet. Something pulsating."

"Do you remember what it looked like?"

Of course I did, it was all I could see.

"It looked like a perfectly symmetrical ball of cottage cheese, wrapped in spider webs. The thing was rising and falling, like a sleeping person's chest, like it was breathing. And things were crawling all over it. Tiny translucent critters that definitely were _not_ spiders." I experience the fremitus shudders of my heart about to gallop on a volley of panic, but my shell remains paralyzed.

"So, if they weren't spiders then what were they?"

"I don't know, but the DNR and department of wildlife and fisheries were declaring warnings of chiggers on loudspeakers all weekend."

He leans closer, and I can smell the grease emanating from his creased forehead. "But, what I'm asking you lieutenant, is if they _were_ chiggers."

"I can't verify that, sir."

Why did I just call him sir? Why are rivulets of drool streaming down my chin and neck, and into my shirt; slithering into my armpits?

He scribbles something and for a moment the faint crumpling of parchment under ball-point is all I hear.

Yup, I'm definitely on something; some derivative of sodium pentothal, but far more effective. How do I know that?

"What happened next?"

"Then I tried to flush it."

Once again, a vulgar image floods my mindscape; hiding behind the shadows of my eyelids. "It circled the bowl a few times, but it didn't go down. That gossamer ball of pitted cheeses just kept swirling until it broke like a morel. Then tiny, translucent things scurried out. They started crawling out of the toilet bowl, over the seat and down the porcelain stem."

My palpitating heart flits like a roach in heat, my shoulder throbs with chilling waves of pain, and yet, at the same time, I feel nothing -- nothing at all.

"Go on," says the man in the lab coat. His sweaty face crumples in fleshy waves. The fluorescence beaming from above glares off his glasses.

I can't see his eyes, and for a gut-wrenching millennium I'm certain it's because he has none.

"I'm not sure, sir," I reply."

Once again with the entitlements; am I actually a lieutenant, or is this eyeless puppet just screwing with my mind?

"It's all kind of a blur. One instant I was watching tiny creatures scurrying over and under the toilet seat, the next thing I knew, Daphne bolted out of the bathroom. I can still hear that high pitched shrieking. She was manic."

"Where did she go?"

"Back into the living room. She collapsed on the rug. She was bawling and scratching voraciously at her arms, face, neck, and scalp." Saliva bubbles pop in the corners of my mouth as spit streams down my chin. I feel it, but at the same time I don't. "She started dry-heaving again. Kate went to see if she was okay." I sigh and it feels like an assuaging, spring breeze rife with the aroma of honey dew. "Kate was always like that, always taking care of people; I think that's what attracted me to her in the first place."

Why was I telling him this?

He jots something down, and my gaze follows the sheen of that indelible pen.

He clears his throat, and says, "Tell me about her, Kate, your girlfriend."

Fond reveries flood my mindscape. That _one_ picnic we shared on the bank of the Grand River which got rained out by full-on hurricane-force gales. Staying up all night, just talking, watching movies, and making love. Her auburn hair. Her lithe, freckled face.

Instead, I say, "God, I hate that bitch so much. She never supported me when I went to...when I went to..."

But the memory escapes me. It's intangible.

He blots the perspiration beading his fatty, wrinkled brow, and asks, "When you went where?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I honestly can't remember."

"But, you _do_ remember the night in question, correct?"

"Correct, sir."

He scribbles something down. His spectacles glide down his greasy beak.

Yet, still I can't see his eyes.

"Then, please, continue."

I try to cogitate it into a linear story. But I can't. Why? My lips flutter, spittle runs down my face like a slobbering dog. Snot seeps from my nostrils.

"What's wrong?"

"I...I can't remember it all. It's like a dream, but not."

"That's to be expected," he replies. He scribes a few lines, and says, "You've been through a horrible tragedy. Quite often in these types of scenarios, the victim's mind subconsciously blocks out the incident in an attempt to, as we say, "forget and move on"." He pushes his glasses back to its proper place upon the bridge of his nose, and adds, "Just tell me what you can remember."

"I remember a lot of skirling. Like pigs being butchered. That's a sound you never get out of your head. People were scratching at themselves like mongrels with the mange. It was intense. Like Baghdad."

And before I can even think it, he asks, "What about Baghdad?"

But wait, I was never in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, or anyplace like that, that was my brother, Jared. So, I explain this to the pudgy grease-ball in his over-sized lab coat. I tell him I'm not thinking straight, that my mind feels muffled and hazy. But that's not true. I've never thought so clearly. So, why don't I know where I am? How come I don't remember what happened? Why are words spewing from my lips that aren't my own?

He scrawls something down, and for an eternity the crinkling of paper resonates within my temples like the tintinnabulation of Notre-Dame's carillon.

"Let's get back to the night of August 16th." He flips through his pad, and his lips move as he reads something silently to himself. "You said you were all out in the living room of the cabin when, as you reported, people were screaming and scratching voraciously at themselves. Please, continue."

So I do. "Like I was saying, it was all kind of a blur, really chaotic. I grabbed Kate and ran. The next thing I knew, we were hiding in...I don't know, a coat closet or something. This walk-in storage area that was completely barren when we arrived, so that's where we stored our gear."

He leafs through his notes again, and asks, "And remind me, when did you arrive at the cabin?"

"Approximately, fifteen hundred hours, sir."

A fat glob of drool sputters from my lips and blots my navy-blue jumper. These are not my clothes. I've never worn these garbs in my life.

He clears his throat. His glasses descend down his grease-shimmering beak.

Still I see no eyes; only pitch-black hollows.

He pushes his spectacles back in their rightful place, once again the preternatural luminance spangles off the lenses, obfuscating any semblance of pupils, irises, windows to a soul. "So, you're in the storage closet."

"Correct, sir."

"And exactly who was in there with you?"

"As I said, just me and Kate, sir."

"Just you and your girlfriend?"

"Affirmative."

"No one else was in there with you?"

"Negative, sir."

"Where was your brother?"

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

"And the other boyfriends, where were they in all this?"

"I...I don't know."

He scratches the fatty folds on his forehead, and says, "I'm confused, at the beginning you testified that your brother and other men were there at the cabin."

"Yes sir, that's correct."

"Yet you go on to say that a bunch of women are screaming and scratching vehemently, but you make no mention of these other men you originally stated were there."

A thin line on saliva runs from my protruding bottom lip.

"So, where are these other men?"

"I don't know, sir."

He jots another few lines as a halo appears to ensconce the shiny, black utensil. "Let's get back to the closet. What happened in there?"

"Kate was hysterical. I started rooting through luggage and packing cracks and crevices with clothes, especially around the door."

"And why did you do that, lieutenant?"

"To keep _them_ out. And like I said, Kate was crazy with panic. She kept saying she could feel them crawling in her mouth, she kept asking me to check. She'd open her mouth and stick out her tongue, but I never saw anything."

"Did you inform her of your findings, or rather, lack there-of?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what did she say to that?"

Anger churns within me like a sleeping giant drowsily awoken. "She accused me of lying." Teeth grinding, I amend, "She said I was calling her a liar, and that I was stupid. I was so angry. I wanted to snap her neck." My body tingles with a rush of adrenaline, yet my façade remains placid and stoic.

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Did you snap her neck? Did you kill her?"

Expectorating like a garden sprinkler, I reply, "No, of course not."

"Are you sure?"

Through clenched teeth, I reply, "Yes, sir."

He scrawls another few lines, and asks, "So what did you do, lieutenant?"

I adjust in my seat and the cuffs cinch tighter around my wrists. My hands incipiently purple from lack of oxygen, yet I experience no pain. "We were planning an exit strategy when the power went out."

"How did the power go out?"

" _They_ did it."

He chuckles, "What, chiggers?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. The point is the power went out, and Kate really went nuts."

"How do you mean?"

"She was shouting and clawing at herself."

He pushes his glasses up his nose, jots something down, and asks, "And then what happened?"

"We were in there for a long time; hours, but it felt like days. I don't know. I can't explain it. Time passes differently in captivity. It's like it's slower and faster at the same time. But eventually we decided to attempt an exit strategy."

"Did you, now?"

"Well, sir, I devised it. Kate didn't really want to leave that room, but she insisted we couldn't stay there."

"So you made a decision for the both of you?"

"That's correct, sir."

"And what were the details of this plan, lieutenant?"

"I had the keys to the jeep in my pocket, and I elected to make a mad dash for it."

"I see. And tell me, how did that work out for you?"

The anger within me percolates to the brim. Teeth clenched so tight I fear they'll shatter, I reply, "Well, I'm here, aren't I?"

He writes something down on that damnable notepad, and says, "So, tell me about this exit strategy you devised. Walk me through it step-by-step."

"Okay. Well, like I said, we were in the storage closet--"

"Just you and Kate?"

"Correct, sir."

"Go on."

"Right, so there we were in the closet. I cleared the clothes away from the door, and we ran out into the living room. All dark out there, but Kate had been there many times, and knew her way around at night."

"And where were the others?"

"They were still in the living room. They...they were all dead. I remember sensing tiny things fall down from the ceiling, like drops of rain, but in my mind I remember thinking that those damn little critters were scurrying all over the walls, like bed bugs circling their prey before descending upon them."

The pen in his burly grasp scratches feverishly upon paper, as if he can't keep up with my racing testimony.

"That's when I noticed Daphne standing by the window. I don't know if Kate saw her initially, but I did."

"What was she doing?"

"She was just standing there, gazing outside. Like I said, the power was out, but we were way out in the sticks, and the moonlight beaming in was more than enough to illuminate her."

He coerces his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, and says, "Go on."

"She said, 'Please, don't leave me.' Then she turned toward us, and I got a better look at her. All her wavy, blonde-hair was gone except for a few spidery strands. The skin on her face had been clawed out, and I could see the muscles and tendons working as she spoke. Tiny, translucent creatures were crawling all within the meaty hollows. Her lips and eyelids appeared to have been chewed off, and she was missing several teeth. And then she said, 'It's okay, you can take me with you. I'm not contagious anymore.'"

A grotesque phantasmagoria flutters behind my eyes, yet my words are so monotonic; completely devoid of inflection, like I'm a zombie. My stomach churns and my skin crawls. They're still inside of me. I think there's something seriously wrong with me. That word keeps thundering around my brain like the clanging of church bells -- contagious. Is that what I am now? Contagious? Should everyone I've been in contact with, everyone I've ever known be quarantined?

I guess I've been drooling for some time, because the man in the lab coat clears his throat. He's staring at me with a sour, crumpled frown. He asks, "And then what happened?"

I think back, but there's nothing more to tell. "I honestly don't know, sir. I can't remember. It's like one moment I was there, and now I'm here."

I mean to add, "By the way, _where_ am I?" But, those utterances don't mumble forth.

"You don't remember fleeing the scene and causing a car accident?"

I envision squealing tires, busting glass, the rusty roars of warped metal. "No, sir. I don't."

Scratching his forehead, he asks again, "Are you sure? You don't remember getting into any accidents?"

"No."

He completes his feverish notations and itches his brow.

Is he infected?

He glares off into the shadows, as if conversing with someone my eyes can't perceive.

"Thank you, lieutenant. That'll be all." Lab coat twirling, he leaves the room before I can even blink.

He's taking it with him; taking _them_ with him. Now it will spread. And it's all because of me. I'm the contagium.

Then another man enters the room. His face is concealed beneath his cap. His black, military fatigues swish as he swiftly maneuvers around me.

He reminds me of a Nazi.

I try to turn around, but my body refuses to cooperate and the cuffs restrain me. Then I feel something cold and barrel-like press into the back of my head.

****

GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN-

US naval lieutenant, Scott Riley, arrested last week sitting in his car shortly after perpetrating a mass shooting in a downtown movie theater, died today in FBI custody due to an Aspirin overdose. The shooting resulted in twenty-eight injuries, and twelve deaths, including the assailant's girlfriend, Kaitlin Snow. Arresting officers on the scene testified to finding copious amounts of ammunition in Lt. Riley's vehicle, as well as a 12-gauge shotgun, a 9-mm Luger, and an M-16 assault rifle. Investigation of the perpetrator's home unveiled an armory of guns and ammo valued at over a hundred thousand dollars, as well as IED's, and plans for terrorist attacks on Ford Field. Autopsy reports revealed that Lt. Riley, who'd just served ten tours in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Pakistan, was on a number of psychotropic drugs including Abilify, Ambien, Ativan, Celexa, Gabitril, Lithium, Paxil, Risperdal, and Benzodiazepines. Lt. Riley's brother, SSG Jared Riley is still at large and wanted in connection to the shooting.

ALL FATHER AND THE SHARK

" _Abhorred monster! Fiend that thou art! The tortures of Hell are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! You reproach me with your creation; come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed."_

-Mary Shelley

" _I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass...and I'm all out of bubblegum."_

-Roddy Piper

I'm not entirely sure, but I think I'm dead. I can't move, can't speak, yet I'm conscious. I'm thoroughly aware of the people shuffling past my body (still lying in the gutter). Hell, I'm not even certain I'm still breathing. _They_ might've got me. Perhaps, I'm stapled. But I've been stapled before and it didn't feel anything like _this_.

I'm still old enough to remember when they first came. At least, I think I'm still old enough. I suppose that if I really am dead, then I'm not anything -- not anymore. Popular science and Hollywood hokum always depicted invaders from another world coming from the heavens. But the reality of it was more horrifying then anything science-fiction could ever prepare mankind for. Instead, they came from the darkest, coldest depths of the ocean, as if they'd been here for centuries or longer. And maybe they were. Maybe, just maybe they'd simply been bidding their time until the human race evolved to the point that made us the most susceptible. Gloria always phrased it as, "They waited until we were ripe for the picking." Perchance she's right. I don't know. Apparently, I don't know anything anymore other than what transpires within the vicinity of my corpse. If I am a corpse. Like I said, I'm not a hundred-percent on that, yet.

I still remember the original news-broadcast. I think I was eleven or twelve at the time. All I remember was wanting to watch cartoons. But as my parents stared at the TV screen with wide gapes and slack jaws, my father uttered, "Son, this is important. It's a major turning point in the history of humanity."

God, he had no idea how right he was.

It was the same on every channel, and on every station. Seemingly overnight, a megalodon arose from out of the depths of the Pacific Ocean and beached itself off the coast of California. For those of you who don't know what a megalodon is, basically it's a prehistoric great-white shark; one the size of a full-on eighteen-wheeler. Except there was something profoundly different about this ancient behemoth, it was breathing.

Now, I don't know how much you understand about sharks, but their technically fish, and fish can't breathe outside of water. But this one did. I still remember seeing its gills methodically rise and fall like the chest of someone sleeping.

For day's on-end, camera crews and news choppers covered the story; people came out in droves to see the living fossil. Some even praised it as a god.

Fucking people.

A buddy of mine used to say that stupidity was the plague of the 21st century. He's dead now. At least, I think he is.

After a couple of days and after hundreds assembled before this megalodon, the creature finally opened its massive jaws and exhaled upon the crowded masses. Then the shark finally expired.

At first, it appeared nothing happened. But after a few years, people started to change. Now there aren't people -- not really. Over the course of a decade, mankind evolved into five distinct species.

This is the world I grew up in. Also, I think it's the world I died in. Like I said, I don't know.

There are no scientific names or concrete classifications for the five species. Everybody calls them by different titles, though some are well-renowned.

Now, I can't prove this. I have absolutely no evidence to support my theory. But, I believe this megalodon infected those around it with microscopic and extremely intelligent bacteria. For instance, think if the flue-virus had a mind of its own, and mutated upon whatever whim it so happened to entertain.

That's what it was. A self-aware pandemic.

How do you fight that?

Oh, sure, the CDC and local governments did all they could to deter the outbreak. But when it all comes down to it, you can't defeat a disease that makes its own decisions and is smarter than all the collective egg-heads ever assembled.

Within ten-years of the shark's mysterious appearance, the course of human evolution changed -- forever.

There's this old T. S. Eliot quote, "This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper."

Yo, that dude must've been fucking psychic, or something, 'cause that shit is right on point.

The first to change were those dumb-witted or mentally handicapped. They became what I refer to as, the crinkles. They're easy to spot due to all the creases on their faces; like the flesh around their skulls just kept growing and growing. They also wear suits of stripped black and orange that kinda crinkle when they move; like their clothes fashioned from contractor bags.

Crinkles are slow, unobservant, and very easy to manipulate.

This one time, I was trapped in an office building. Crinkles were all around me. I knocked one out, and stole his uniform, but I was still trapped. A couple heads walked past (I'll get to the heads in a moment), so I started banging my cranium against the wall. Not hard, but with enough vigor as to get the other crinkles bashing their faces into brick and mortar.

A head walked past, and asked, "What's wrong with them?"

Another replied, "Don't worry about them, there fucking dumb-asses."

As soon as they passed, I got the hell out of there while all the crinkles were still smashing their faces into the walls.

As I mentioned before, there's also a group called "the heads". The heads are hands-down the most prolific perversion of our race, though only a very small fraction of the population turned into them. Heads are cunning, malevolent, and worst of all, they look like regular people.

If one passed my body lying in street, I probably wouldn't even know it. Fortunately, that won't happen, it can't happen, not anymore. But, I'll get to that.

As I mentioned before, I believe this alien virus mutated the masses at a genetic level. Of course, peoples' genes are as uniquely individual as snowflakes, at least, so I've been told. Unfortunately I've never taken a genetics class, nor have I ever seen snow, not in real life anyway. Once when I was younger, and before this plague, I had a chance to go skiing somewhere up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. But, I got pneumonia, and was bed-ridden for two-weeks. I almost died. I often wonder if my life hadn't been a whole hell of a lot better had I died then.

Sorry, I'm rambling (and apparently to myself considering no one will ever hear this). But, I've got all the time in the world. At least, I think I do. I mean, I must be dead. My eyes are open and I haven't blinked since I fell. You would think my oculars would be dried and irritable. But nope. Can't even feel it.

Anyway, there's also what I call, the savages. They're skinny, wiry, they're hair falls out in clumps, and evidently, they don't care much for clothing. Their teeth rot out and are replaced with rows of serrated shark-teeth. Their eyes burn with either a brilliant hue of blue or green, as if their irises comprised of the stuff glow-sticks are made out of, or better yet, when someone wearing blue-tinted contact-lenses ambles under a black-light.

I don't know why some savages have green eyes and others blue. All I know is that it doesn't matter what color your eyes were before, once you're infected, the outcome is either one of two variables.

Besides the aforementioned reasons, I call these suckers the savages because they live out in the woods (what little forestry is left these days, anyways). One savage isn't nearly as dangerous as a single head. In fact, I've noticed that lone savages are rather inquisitive, much like cats. But when they congregate (which they usually do), their more reminiscent to a pack of wolves.

This one time, Gloria and I were hiding out in the woods when we stumbled upon a whole tribe of savages. Luckily, they didn't see us. One did, but she let us go without alerting the others. To this day, I have no idea why. Surrounded (which is usually the custom in this day-and-age), we bore down for the night, not fifty-feet from a savage camp. One of them questioned their leader, then the two fought, and before the match ended, the entire tribe erupted in all-out bedlam; attacking each other with tooth and claw. That was some messed up shit. And it didn't end until dawn, when most of the camp dead, and the victors grew tired. Gloria didn't watch. I did. That shit...the things I saw...it still haunts my dreams. Or at least, it did. I don't know. I don't even dream anymore.

Oh yeah, I forgot. Savages have tattoos. At least, I think they're tattoos. They're odd markings that seem to etch in their backs as if they branded. Often the marks fade away. It's a symbol of some kind. Sort of like a planet with rings and satellites surrounding it, but a figure resides inside. I can't really remember. I've only seen it a few times. I'd attempt to draw that sigil now, except...well, you know.

Once, a savage boy followed me and Gloria for a while. We knew it was there, but it didn't approach us for a couple of days. I was terrified. Gloria was the one who told me not to worry about _one_ savage.

I asked the savage about his marking.

He said, "The symbol appears and then fades quickly. It marks those who've never believed in, or acknowledged the All Father. It symbolizes how the All Father sees the unfaithful, and then dismisses them." Or something like that. I don't remember exactly what he said. It's hard to understand what people with multi-layered gums say.

There's actually been a lot of buzz about this All Father guy. But, like I said, I'll get to that. I have all the time in the world. At least, I think I do.

Next on our list of genetically-altered-humans comes, "the hedonists". I've dubbed them so because all they do is pursue pleasure. Basically, they're hermaphrodites. I don't know how much you comprehend about hermaphrodites, but essentially, they're people with both sex organs, you know, a phallus and a vagina. But the sex organs of human hermaphrodites are undeveloped and non-working. The dual sex-organs of the hedonists' are fully functional. I've seen it. I wish I hadn't. But, I did.

Hedonists like to assemble inside wide structures they can fashion into posh accommodations. Believe it or not, ninety-percent of the places I've personally seen them holding quarters were in churches or religious temples.

They lie around all day; over indulging in food and drink. They grow fat and listless. Then they all fuck each other -- literally. Then they eat, drink, and fuck some more. Much like the savages, they too aren't fairly troublesome...unless you stumble into one of their "dojos" when they're "active".

Finally, we have what those infected call, "the defiers" (as in, those who defy). Defiers are people (mostly in hiding), who haven't contracted this interstellar disease, like me, Carlos Montoya. Savages don't really care about defiers, nor do crinkles unless they've been ordered to. But heads and hedonists don't like us, they claim we defy the All Father's grand design (hence the term, defier). If they find us, they'll try to transform us into a member of one of the new species via a process I call "stapling". I'll describe more about stapling in a minute. Like I said, I'm not going anywhere.

Not long after the rise of these new races and the destabilization of any semblance of government, came the great purge. Basically, a cadre of heads and crinkles invaded in the dead of night, they dragged people out of their homes, seized all children, and stapled any adult they could find.

That's kind of where I came in. You see, way back before the world changed, I was a school bus driver. I know, I know, I should've made more of myself. But hey, if nothing else, the end-of-the-world-as-we-knew-it sort of exonerates my lackadaisical life-choices.

I don't remember much of the purge; just fire, smoke, and a lot of screaming. Other than that, it was all just a blur. Although I still get flashes of the event in my dreams, at least, back when I used to dream. I think it was all just so traumatic that my mind blocked it out, except for when waking from vivid nightmares like a returning veteran suffering PTSD. But, I do remember our escape from San Francisco. Gloria and I rounded up as many kids as we could, made a mad dash for the school, and drove away in my bus. Good ol' number 39. Of course, I'm summarizing. It was a harrowing exodus, and we didn't all make it out of the city. But like I said, I don't remember it all, at least, not in detail.

Around dawn, the bus ran out of gas, stranding us a few miles from a small town just beyond the metro area. We sought refuge in a nondenominational church. That's the first time we encountered the hedonists. Before that, no one even knew of their existence. The naked hedonists were all asleep when we stumbled across them, but our stirring caused them to waken. The sweaty, flabby folds of their flesh jiggled like luke-warm Jell-O.

I let them chase me as Gloria hid the children away in the church's attic just like Anne Frank and her family. Believe me, I never thought it was good idea, but all the children had to do was lay low and be quiet while the hedonists were active, and when they passed out from exhaustion, the kids could sneak down and steal food, water, and whatever. All that happened a few weeks ago. The last I knew those kids were safely squared away and the hedonists had no knowledge of their presence. I'd like to believe that's still the case, but I just don't know. No one knows what the invaders did with the children they captured. And frankly, I don't want to know. Anyway, after Gloria and I secured the children, we floated away. That's the first time I was stapled.

Oh, did I forget to mention floating?

A couple months before the purge, heads and crinkles erected monolithic towers that somehow affected the Earth's gravitational pull. Inanimate objects aren't afflicted, nor are those infected, but us defiers just kind of drift around, as if buoyant in zero-G. Don't get me wrong, we can walk around, but it's slow and extremely tedious. Floating is a far greater avenue for getting around, plus it's cool as hell.

The problem with floating is that it's extremely awkward and takes some getting used to. You know how children learning to ambulate just sort of stumble around? Imagine you were attempting to unlearn how to walk.

Like I said, the first time I was stapled was when I floated away from the nondenominational church. A hedonist staggered after me and tossed a metallic boomerang-like object at me. The device shrank to the size of a staple as it soared through the air. Then it imbedded into my right forearm. I started to sink to ground as the staple dug deeper into my flesh, as if it sentient. I think that's why those infected (and anything containing metal), don't float around. But as I stated earlier, this is all theory, I have no proof. Luckily, I always carry my trusty pocket-knife on me, and managed to carve the staple out before it burrowed under my skin. Then I was able to float away again.

Gloria was stapled and slipped into some sort of coma. That's the reason I'm entertaining the notion my plight may have been caused by the same condition. But, I didn't experience that stinging sensation, or the feeling of metal consciously burrowing into my skin like some kind of gopher or groundhog. Plus, all the people I've seen get stapled never fell into a trance; they just turned into one of _them_. Maybe this is something new. I don't know.

Let me tell you a little bit about Gloria. She's a twenty-eight-year-old teacher at the school I drive for; a brunette with the face of an angel and the body of a very expensive escort. I might've tried to pursue her, but she's a radiantly happy newlywed. And I'm just a bus driver.

Her husband, Alex, was with us during the purge, as were a few other adults, and about twenty kids. Alex got lost during the confusion. We still don't know what happened to him. The other adults got stapled, and a few of the children were caught. Gloria and I were the only adults to make it out of the city. When we arrived at the church where we left the kids, there were only thirteen of them remaining; a baker's dozen, and my lucky number. Hopefully it's also theirs.

Confliction ate away at me. Without even trying, I was left all alone with the girl of my dreams. You know, like one of those hypothetical scenarios: who's the one person you'd want to be stranded with on a deserted island? But, she was persistent about searching for Alex. On one hand, if we found him, and he turned, I'd get the girl. On the other hand, if we never found him, she'd never get closure, and never be able to let him go. And yet another tangent existed; if we found him, I'd just be a third-wheel. In any event, I just couldn't let her wander off alone. So, I promised to help her. Little good it did either of us.

Once, we stumbled upon a battle ensuing between a band of savages and heads (and their crinkle subordinates). I'd almost feel glad they're fighting each other if not for the outcome. Surreptitiously, we tried floating away, but during the melee, Gloria was stapled. Instantly, she descended toward the ground like a balloon running out of helium. I knew I should've carved the staple out, but there wasn't time, too much was going on, and I had no idea where she got hit. So, I floated her out of there.

After a few days, we happened upon an abandoned gas station inhabited by a small group of defiers. But, by then, the staple bore too deep to dig out of Gloria, and she could barely even walk. By sunset, she slipped away. She didn't die; she merely fell into state much like I'm enduring. The only difference is she didn't take a five-hundred-foot plunge. And as far as I know, she's still alive somewhere.

I hope.

The gas station is where I met Dunk (short for Duncan); a six-foot, 300-hundred-pound black guy with massive hands. His overall stature appeared intimidating, yet the gentleness lurking behind his eyes suggested he wouldn't harm a fly. Dunk told me he received a vision regarding the All Father. I, of course, scoffed. Then he placed a meaty palm upon my forehead, and I saw what he dreamt.

I don't know how. But shit, most of what I experience now-a-days seems uncomprehensive to an outward observer.

I was soaring (not floating), about a behemoth glacier somewhere around mountains of snow and ice, it kind of looked like the arctic, but it wasn't, it was another world in another galaxy. I swooped down into the ice, and deep underground. I flew into a huge cavern. Once, long ago, an alien race worked these tunnels; mining them for precious resources. But those workers were long gone. There, I saw a young boy frozen in some ice-like substance. The boy was abducted decades ago and brought here, but immured within his crystalline prison (all except for his head), he did not age. The boy looked familiar, so I floated closer to get a better view. Then the boy glanced at me, and a shudder coursed through my ethereal bones. But the boy wasn't staring at my image. As if magnetically drawn, and against my will, I entered the boy's body; taking his place in the ice-prison. A tall, sinewy creature with greyish-skin approached. The figure's eyes appeared as deep, black wells of sadness.

Using the boy's words, I asked, "Why am I here?"

Shoulders hunched, the creature's head dipped, as if shamed, and then it spoke. But it did not utilize its feature-less mouth; hearing its voice inside my mind, the being said, "Your incarceration here was a mistake, as was as your abduction. Sadly, many mistakes have been made over the millennia."

"Who are you? What are you?"

It replied, "The last of a dying breed. I am the All Father. I am your creator. But I'm not _the_ creator."

"Do you know what's happening to my world? Earth?"

"Yes. The universe is too divided. I attempted to remedy this. I tried to make all worlds one; connected, as was _the_ creator's original intent. I have done this a billion times on billions of worlds. But, something went horribly wrong with Earth. Your species is flawed. Instead of unifying you, it turned you into different beings; dividing you further. Even after I have granted humanity with my gift, the mighty shark, you still grow in separate directions, it's because your species doesn't want to unify. You want to hold onto hate. I am greatly disheartened by this, for you are my children, and I your father." The All Father gravely shook its head, and continued, "I thought your fighting would've ended after my gift. But now, my children fight more ferociously than ever. And it will not end there. Even at this very moment, as I'm speaking to you..." Peering intently at the boy, the All Father said, "Carlos Montoya, my children are building a weapon to attack my other children on other worlds. And they will succeed if you do not stop them. That is why the boy was brought here, and Duncan granted the gift of sight. They are vessels through which I can speak to you."

"But why me? I'm just a bus driver."

"You have been chosen for your courage, honor, devotion, and pluck." The All Father dipped its head again, and continued, "By the time you receive this message I'll be dead, and if you do not complete this task, so will all of my children." Staring intently at the child, it amended, "If you do not stop them, all I have created shall be no more."

Then I awoke in a gasp, like I hadn't taken a breath in minutes.

Dunk writhed and squirmed on the rubble littered ground, as if suffering a seizure. Then he died.

We buried Dunk at sunset, and then I broke bread with the other defiers. I didn't tell them my vision, it was only meant for me.

I thought the others would blame me for Dunk's death, but they didn't. They said Dunk had been sick for a while, and there was nothing they could do but keep him comfortable. I don't know if that's true. I don't know what's true anymore; only that I'd been given a task, and if I didn't accomplish it, it meant the end -- of everything.

At dawn I left Gloria in their care and floated off to accomplish the impossible. Drifting around the coastline, I returned to the source of all this madness -- San Francisco.

Some might condemn my leaving a beautiful, comatose woman in the arms of complete strangers, but that's the funny thing; deifiers don't hurt each other. We're the All Father's last hope for galactic atonement.

After a bit of sleuthing, and flying under the radar (so to speak), I finally found it; a monolithic trident-like structure tucked behind the old Alexander building. Getting in was a piece of cake, 'though I had to hide in an air duct for day or two before making my move. Hell, I wasn't even sure what I was gonna do. But, I had to do something. I came this far. It's like encroaching upon a spider, with the intention of swatting it, and then chickening-out. I couldn't do that. Not now. Not ever again.

Like I said, the facility resembled a gigantic trident, but crowning the top of each tier were huge cannons, like intergalactic death-rays.

I waited until the wee hours, and then snuck in through the ventilation system. I expected the place to be guarded with a few heads or at least their crinkle subordinates, instead I found a lone scientist. He didn't don the garbs of a head, nor did he possess the wrinkled face of a crinkle. I think he was human. That's the most terrifying notion about this ordeal; human collaborators working in tandem with those infected.

The scientist didn't notice me, so I stealthfully floated up to the control deck; from which the other two cannons were clearly visible through a wide-paneled window. I don't know what they're plan was, or what they intended using the cannons for, I just know I couldn't allow it.

The console looked fairly simple; just a ball-like device with a circular pad around it, like one of those old arcade machines.

With my palm on the ball, I fingered the circular pad, turning the cannon of the control room I was in. Then all hell broke loose. Caution-lights flashed. An emergency klaxon resounded. Then a shit-load of crinkles marched into the control room.

Luckily for me, crinkles are dumb.

I had just enough time to master the control switch. I aimed the cannon at the next one, and pressed my palm into the ball. A green-light rocketed out of the barrel and into the next cannon; like a laser-beam from one of those old sci-fi movies. I hit the target head-on, but nothing happened. So I shot it again. The ground quaked. The scientist and crinkles ran for their lives. I aimed at the third cannon and kept shooting until the building began to collapse. Then I floated away.

Funny thing; as soon as the (what I call), trident fell, all their technology failed. Heads no longer served the All Father. Crinkles no longer subserviently bowed to their masters, plus they started to regain some flicker of their original intelligence. Staples became obsolete and ineffectual. Worst off, defiers could now longer float.

I hung suspended in mid-air for about three-seconds before I took a 500-hundred-foot plunge to ground level.

The trident collapsed, and I was sure I'd be crushed under the debris. But that didn't happen.

Now, I'm just lying here in the gutter as survivors strut past.

Can't move. Can't breathe. Can't even blink. I've gotta be dead. That's the only thing that makes sense.

Wait. Hold on. Someone's coming. If I could, I'd turn and gaze in their direction, but...you know.

I hear the ruffling of trash-bags. I already know it's a crinkle. He walks past, then does a double-take; peering at me as I lay on the side of the road.

He stares at me for a good, long minute before tossing a quarter upon my corpse.

I'm enraged. I'm not a fucking bum. I'm dead...I think.

The crinkle turns to ambulate on his merry way, and his clothes sound like raking brittle autumn leaves from the lawn.

A glimmer of intellect spangles his sunken eyes, and he retrieves the alms he previously supplicated me with.

Can you believe that? A crinkle, thinking I'm no more than a beggar, tosses me a quarter, and then thinks better of it.

I lie here motionless, breathless, and blinkless.

I remember the All Father's words: "The universe is too divided. I attempted to remedy this. But, your species is flawed. You want to hold onto hate."

Maybe that's true, I don't know.

Then I remember what my father told me when the shark first arrived: "Son, this is important. It's a major turning point in the history of humanity."

I've actually accomplished what most people dream of. I saved the world. Despite the residual effects of the infection, people are returning to normality.

I lie here and I think of Gloria; with the face of an angel and the body of a high-priced escort. I'll never see her again.

Yes, I changed the world -- forever. But I'll never know what becomes of mankind. 'Cause I'm dead...at least, I think I am.

THE TICKET

" _The witching hour, somebody had once whispered to her, was a special moment in the middle of the night when every child and every grown-up was in a deep, deep sleep, and all the dark things came out from hiding and had the world all to themselves."_

-Roald Dahl

The attic was bigger than Elena expected, as if it weren't an attic at all, but another realm all together. The Degrassi home had always been cold, but the attic seemed infinitely more frigid. And even though it was so dark that she couldn't see her own breath, her footing never faltered, as if she'd been here before. She made her way through a pitch black maze of cobwebs and corridors, following nothing but her intuition.

William tried to stop her from going up there; had begged and pleaded and blubbered. But in the end (considering that he couldn't physically touch her) it was no use. Elena knew she shouldn't go up there. In fact, she'd vowed she wouldn't. But she just couldn't get the idea out of her head.

She'd lived in haunted houses before, mostly as a kid. At first, living in haunted houses scared her. But her open-minded, hippy parents encouraged her to talk to the spirits, as they wouldn't -- couldn't hurt her. She liked ghosts, they fascinated her. Elena liked a lot of things _normal_ people didn't: jinxes, black cats, the number thirteen, and of course -- haunted houses. She knew that sort of thing terrified most people, but not her, she thrived on it.

Elena began writing horror stories back in high school and discovered she possessed a real knack for it. She was good at frightening people. She took a few creative writing classes in college and sold her first story, _Bloody Bones,_ her freshmen year to a local magazine publishing called _The Living Bones_. After that, she started selling stories left and right, it was almost too easy; especially when she had a lot of real-life experience from which to elaborate on. And while other kids her age were either out partying until they puked or studying their brains out, she stayed inside and banged away at the keyboard. Her roommate, Tanya (the definitive hardcore party-girl), probably hated her, but she didn't care. All that mattered to her was that feeling of accomplishment; that feverish inspiration flowing through her body and working her fingers across the keys, like the planchette over an Ouija board.

Elena celebrated graduating USC early with the success of her first book, it was a best-seller. So were the other five subsequent novels. Despite how much the critics and readers were given the willies from her books, they didn't really seem to scare _her_. That was why she started renting haunted houses, living in a different one for a few months while she wrote a different book. The work came easy, and while some of the houses actually _were_ haunted, still she wasn't scared. She longed to reside somewhere (or more to the point, to write something) that actually frightened _her._ She was looking for real horror. She was searching for true terror. Then she received an anonymous email, informing her of the Degrassi estate.

The Degrassi estate consisted of a run-down mansion perched atop a bluff overlooking the ocean. The entire grounds were surrounded by tall-standing pines and rod-iron gating. Bricks and mortar crumbled like dust. Old, wooden shutters were boarded over. Moss and vines snared upon the peeling fascia. Weather-ravaged shingles swayed in the gentle, briny breeze like dandelions in a field. Sure, the house was dilapidated. No one lived there for thirty years. But, as soon as Elena rested her gaze upon the mansion, sun setting over the ocean line, she felt right at home

A large stone fountain stood in front of the house. The statue at the top was a fish's head. The once proud marble was now grown over in moss and vines, just like the rest of the domicile. The circular driveway around the fountain cracked and splintered as weeds grew tall and undeterred.

Huge oak doors fashioned the top of a small flight of stone steps, withered in age.

The inside of the house appeared dark and dusty. A rank musty aroma slithered around the stagnant air. An enormous glass chandelier hung precariously from loose ceiling boards. How long until the chain snapped and the decorative fixture crashed down into the attic below?

Hopefully, she'd never find out. Here insurance would probably cover the cost of the damage, still, she didn't want to pay for the inevitable.

Elena unpacked her gear and set up shop in the parlor. As the sun set and the darkness grew, she grabbed her trusty battery-operated lantern and strolled through the maze of corridors and guest rooms. Floor boards squeaked. Mice pranced about between the walls. Cobwebs littered the hallways. But she was not afraid.

She spent most of her first day planted on a red crushed-velvet couch surmounted by boxes of files and notebooks, painfully working through the first chapter of her new book. She'd thought she was ready to write, she had pages worth of notes that applied to her latest work. Yet when she finally sat down (certain the words would just come pouring out of her like they usually did), nothing came. Not even a drop.

After two days, not only did she fail to write a single, solitary word, but apparently the power company still hadn't been unable to get the lights on. Thank God the plumbing worked, or she'd be reduced to doing her business outside.

In the daytime, she explored the cavernous hallways and bedrooms (as she convinced she could only achieve her best work at night). She hadn't gone into the attic. Not yet, but she thought about it. She thought about it a lot.

Elena hadn't experienced any paranormal activity in the house and she quite remised about that. With a history of 37 deaths and 18 unexplained disappearances, the Degrassi estate was purportedly the most haunted house on the West Coast. But unfortunately for her, this particular home seemed nothing more than a dud. Maybe that's why she couldn't write -- no inspiration. Yes, that had to be it. Or perhaps it was the incessant noise coming from somewhere above the ceiling. It was a soft knocking tempo, as if someone or something rapping upon some hidden chamber door. What could that insufferable racket be? She wanted to go up in the attic and find out, but she wouldn't -- she couldn't. She didn't know why, after all, she was most curious about what was actually up there, but not _that_ curious. She wasn't afraid to go up there. At least, that's what she told herself. She wasn't afraid of anything. But that was the thing right there, whatever was up there wasn't a "thing," it was something else entirely. She didn't know how she knew that, but she felt it heart and soul.

She closed her eyes, trying to focus on the task at hand (writing), as she massaged her temples with her fingertips. Then she heard it, a soft knocking sound. But knocking wasn't quite right; it was more of a bouncing noise, like a small rubber ball bounding down the hall. She opened her oculars. Out of a darkened corridor came a small, red rubber-ball. It bounced lightly a few times before rolling toward her feet, where it came to rest. She wasn't surprised nor was she scared. For once, she felt excitement rushing through her like a keening winter's wind. It didn't matter if the ball came from a ghost, stray dog, or even a prowler. She was just glad that _something_ was finally happening. She picked up the ball and glanced over to where it came from. There, standing in the doorway was a young boy of about the age of nine. He appeared pale; wearing shorts and a striped tee-shirt. His hair cut in a bowl-shape. Judging from his garb and hairstyle, Elena figured the boy was straight out of the 40's.

Donning an awkward smile, the boy waved, and said, "Hi."

"Hello, my name is Elena."

"Of course you are," the boy replied, "I haven't forgotten."

"And you are?"

"My name is William."

"Do you live here, William?"

He chuckled, "Of course. And now, so do you."

"That's right," she said, smiling back, "I do."

"Can we play catch now?"

"Sure."

That's how Elena spent her time: Roaming the house in the day and playing catch with William at night. She didn't write. Oh sure, she tried, but whenever it seemed like she on the cusp of breaking the proverbial flood gates, some strange distracting sound would emanate from somewhere upstairs; a warbling noise that resembled that of a passing helicopter, but more intense. Things went on like that for almost an entire week, and then on the seventh day, she got sick.

Elena knew a lot about the Degrassi house, as a writer she did her homework. But she didn't know about the attic. There were no articles anywhere about anything ever happening up there. William warned her not to go up there. Several times. But still, it was all she thought about. It consumed her. She just couldn't stop thinking about it. She was so obsessed with it, she'd forgotten all about her book. She'd forsaken the entire outside world and the life she left behind.

The house remained cold and drafty. Wind rushed through the un-insulated walls in moaning gales. Neither the power nor the heat had been turned on, and Elena felt so sick she couldn't (or wouldn't), even go outside to charge her cellphone in the car. But, at least the plumbing still worked (though it poured brown, malodorous water).

She spent the last two days lying on the crushed red-velvet couch, periodically blacking out only to wake and find things scribbled in her note book. Her handwriting, but she couldn't remember doing it.

One time while napping on the sofa, her cellphone (which ran out of charge some unknown time ago), turned on by itself. Or more to the point, the speaker-phone turned on. There wasn't a dial tone, only a crackling sound and heavy breathing. Then a scream. Elena bolted off the couch, and almost tripped over the blanket wrapped around her. She thrust open the door, about to run outside. She stopped before even taking a single step into the California sunshine. She was afraid to go outside. She didn't know why, but it was true, it terrified her. True horror. She closed the front door and returned to the living room; feeling dead inside. That was when she started seeing them -- everywhere. They lingered all over the house.

How could she have ever missed them?

She saw a young woman in a faded, blue sun-dress and bonnet, stick an electric egg-beater in her mouth and turn it on high. The chunks of cheek and tongue rained down on the warped linoleum flooring in blots. Teeth rattled across the floor and somehow, Elena stepped on one. The tooth cut into her foot like a long sliver of broken glass, leaving a huge, gaping blackened sore. But when she looked again, the wound was gone.

In the living room, mere feet away from the crushed red-velvet couch, Elena watched an elderly woman cram a funnel down a child's (probably _their_ grandchild), throat and pour a whole bottle of Drano into the boy's windpipe. Then the two phantoms dissipated; leaving only a damp pool of bloody foam and Drano soaking into the stained and frayed shag carpeting.

In the bathroom, a morbidly obese man suffered an aneurism while sitting on the toilet. Then he keeled over in a bog of his own blood and fecal matter. Many others resided within the mansion. They loomed everywhere; hanging themselves, stabbing or shooting others. The murders were brutal, some done by bare hands. And then there were the _others_ , the ones who merely stood in the shadows, sobbing softly or screaming at the top of their lungs in torment before dissolving into swirls of dust. Elena could hear their final words of anger and hatred. She heard them wailing out, lost and in despair. She heard them pleading for her to help them; for her to let them out of the attic. But she couldn't. She wouldn't. They begged her to join them up there in the attic. But she wouldn't -- she couldn't.

Once Elena started seeing and hearing them, she didn't stop. But that wasn't all. She felt another presence lurking within the mansion. Not the ghosts, but something else. She could sense its gaze all around her. Somehow it was feeding off her energy, making her weak and ill as it grew stronger. And when that started happening she started thinking about the attic again. She wanted to go up there. She _needed_ to go up there. But still, she didn't.

One time, Elena stood in the kitchen, trying to clean. She didn't want to. She didn't feel like it and moreover, any attempts at improving the home just _felt_ wrong. Still, she needed something to occupy her mind. She was dusting off the cupboards when she first saw them. Huge hairy spiders crawling over the cabinets -- they were everywhere. A wave of disgust flushed through her, but she didn't want to kill the spiders. They seemed docile and ambivalent to her presence; just crawling about their own accord, spinning their little webs, and pumping their victims (mostly insects but also rats) with venom.

Eventually, she roamed the halls like a ghost, not even thinking about writing or the encroaching deadline for the manuscript of her next book. The specters loomed everywhere now. Their voice's rattled around in her head. Every once in a while a rustling noise emanated mere inches from wherever she stood. Mostly it was the boy with his little ball, begging for her to play catch with him. But she didn't want to. She didn't feel like it. She didn't feel like doing anything. She didn't even feel like living anymore. The rustling startled her, but still, she continued to tell herself she wasn't afraid, but she wasn't sure anymore. She wasn't sure of _anything_ anymore. Once, the rustling had turned out to be a spider the size of a large house cat. The arachnid seemed just as startled by her as she was by it. She didn't want the spider to think ill of her, so she picked it up, and held it close to her face as she stroked the back of its bristly body like a beloved house pet. She looked into its multifaceted eyes. Its mandibles were the size of her pinkies. It was kind of cute, so she coddled it, telling it how precious it was and how much she loved it before setting it down upon the cracked and warped fissure flooring. As she watched the arachnid scurry off she couldn't help but think of the attic. She closed her eyes and she actually felt the wooden knob in her hand. She felt the weight of it as she pulled the stairs down into the hallway. She wanted to be there. She longed to be there.

Elena stood in the attic now. William tried to talk her out of it, tried to stop her. But in the end he was unable. Dark up here. Pitch-black and cold. Someone else up here too. _Something_ else. Whatever it was, it was strong. Its power radiated out like heat. Dark, but she could still make out a shadowy form looming before her. The figure came closer and for some inexplicable reason, Elena saw the apparition through the gloom -- and it was her.

Elena quavered, "So, it's you."

"No," replied the _other_ Elena, "it's _you_. It's always been you up here, you died up here, don't you remember?"

Trembling, she said, "No, that's not true."

But she felt it now. True terror.

"Of course it is. You know it. You've always known it." The _other_ smiled; dead eyes glinting in the darkness. "That's why you wanted to come up here."

"You lie! You've been using me, feeding off me! And now you're lying, lying so you can get out!"

The _other_ continued, "But don't you see, I need you to take my place. Don't you know you're my ticket, baby? You're my one-way ticket out-a here."

"No!" Elena screamed and dashed toward the draw ladder. The thing reached out and wreathed a shadowy talon around her ankle, tripping her. Elena thrashed about on the ground. Fighting and kicking until she was able to break free of the creature's clutches. She shrieked as she fell out of the attic, and crashed hard onto the wooden, plank flooring below. The thing above skirled in rage, hovering around the entrance of the attic. The thing was infuriated but seemed unable to leave its prison.

Sensing the hatred sweltering behind her eyes, Elena uttered, "That's right. You stay up there where you belong."

The thing roared again and even though it couldn't physically leave the attic, its anger vibrated throughout the house. The "others" cried-out and hid in the shadows. The walls, floors, and ceiling bent and heaved in furious rage. Elena screamed at the thing in the attic in triumph and dashed down the hall toward the front door. She was halfway outside when stopped. Once again, the outside world terrified her.

True horror.

What could be out there? She stood there a moment. The thing in the attic wailed out again like a marauding banshee. Elena took a deep breath and stepped outside. Instantly she felt better. Instantly she remembered her life and the world beyond this cursed home. There was a reason this house wasn't occupied or torn down. Something lived up in the attic, something that wanted to get out. But it hadn't, it failed. And in the end it was Elena who escaped. She glimpsed up at the bright, sunny California sky, and inhaled a deep breath of that sweet ocean air before something real, something corporeal, reached out, grabbed her, and drug her back inside.

****

Dusk. The sun spangled the tides and breaks with golden glimmers as it sank beyond the oceanic horizon when Elena finally exited the house. It had been a long vicious battle of wills, but in the end, _she_ had overcome. She'd won. She stumbled toward the red, Chevy Cobalt she'd rented as if soused or lost in a somnambulant daze; as if waking from an extremely vivid dream in which she still half-asleep. She opened the driver's side door and slid behind the wheel. Reclining in the plush leather seat, she squeezed the steering wheel with both hands, and felt the reassurance of reality there. She _had_ been in the attic. She had _always_ been in the attic, but now that was over. She was out and it felt great. She exhaled a gale of relief; as if she hadn't taken a true breath in eons. She turned the key in the ignition, and the car purred to life. She pulled out of the driveway, smiled, and commenced whistling. It wasn't long before she began singing softly and eerily, "Don't you know you're my ticket, baby? You're my one-way ticket out-a here."

FROM THE LEAVES OF THE EPIPHATREE

VOLUME 2

INTRO

(VENGEANCE IN REMISSION)

When I was just a wee-pee sprout

Grandpa took me on the knee

He said the greatest things in life

Are those you can't foresee

And one day, when you're much older

And your heart falls apart

You'll see the wisdom in these words

And know how strong you have become

HEAD-SPINNER

Lock up all the cupboards

Throw away the key

Shut-up all the shutters

Draw the drapes so none can see

Me brooding in my adytum

Hiding in my mew

Stewing in this selfish, loathsome attitude

Undone

Not one

Our plots were granules

Uncouth

The sleuth

Thought I heard this song before

Your head's like rolling plunder

My angst burns hate like gasoline

So much for work in tandem

So much for compromise

Said to the sky, "I'm thunder"

Said to the rats, "I'm king"

Said to the child, "I'm nothing"

Said to myself, "I'm free"

Can't break a brokenhearted man

Can't split a shattered heart in-half

Can't speak your mind until you understand

Head-spinning, I sit and stir alone

Unjust

Just 'cause

Not fair to both of us

Prelude

The coupe

Thought I knew it all along

Your heart's in constant anguish

My breath's as thick as Vaseline

So much for working things out

So much for constant judgments

Said to the sky, "I'm lightning"

Said to the ants, "I'm bee"

Said to the waif, "I'm servant"

Said to myself, "I'm me"

Can't break a brokenhearted man

Can't split a shattered heart in-half

Can't speak your mind until you understand

Head-spinning, I churn and burn alone

I will only be set free

So long as we can be

Together with no other

I will only say goodbye

So long as we can fly

Far away

From each other

Set me free!

Not you

Untrue

Pain is a two-way avenue

We both gotta start from square-one

We both gotta try again

So, just roll the dice

And don't think twice

Let's start this pilgrimage

Into the wild-eyed yonder

Into the great unseen

Up from the deepest oceans

Down from the tallest trees

Unto a new horizon

We're both on the brink and can't look back

Just plant one foot forward

And shake it out again

Clawing out of a gaping chasm

Unearthed from the darkest mines

But, you know when one foot forward is two steps back

You're about to lose your fucking mind

Said to the child, "I'm anger"

Screamed at the sky, "I'm rage"

Said to the house, "I'm shelter"

Assured myself, "I'm saved"

Said to the naïve, "I'm burden"

Said to the grave, "I'm stone"

Grieve for these tears I've murdered

'Cause head-spinning, I'm doom and gloom

Alone!

Head-spinning in doom and gloom alone

Can't break a brokenhearted man

Can't split a shattered heart in-half

Can't speak your mind until you understand

Head-spinning, I sit and stir alone

Can't break a brokenhearted man

Can't split a shattered heart in-half

Can't speak your mind until you understand

Head-spinning, I churn and burn alone

Head-spinning I'm doom and gloom, alone

MY LITTLE LEPIDOPTERA

(A MANTRA)

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Thaw, thaw, thaw

All my coleoptera

Dawn, dawn, dawn

The new millennium

Hide, hide, hide

Tiny arachniaii

Fly up in the sky

My sweet diptera

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Soar, soar, soar

Above the clouds

And here me

Roar, roar, roar

A triumphant yaw

Upon the breathe of death

I escape with golden wings

Sing unto the dawn

A song, forgotten lore

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw

Tiny isoptera

Spawn, spawn, spawn

All my orthoptera

Hide, hide, hide

All arachniaii

Fly up in the sky

My sweet diptera

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Roar, roar, roar

Against Hell's pit

And watch me

Soar, soar, soar

Above it all

Upon the breathe of death

I escape with silver shoes

Sing unto the eve

A song of forgotten blues

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Chore, chore, chore

Friendly hymenoptera

Store, store, store

You mini-optimists

Hide, hide, hide

Tiny Arachniaii

Fly up in the sky

My sweet diptera

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Bore, bore, bore

You mini-burrowers

Flit, flit, flit

You little critters

Upon the breathe of death

I watch you weave your nests

Sing unto the dawn

A time of innocence

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Forage, forage, forage

Plecoptera

Burn, burn, burn

Blasted blattidae

Hide, hide, hide

Loathsome arachniaii

Rise, rise, rise

My lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Hush, hush, hush

My little annelid

Sin, sin, sin

We forgive your kin

Hide, hide, hide

Tiny araneaii

Fly up in the sky

My sweet diptera

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Thaw, thaw, thaw

All my coleoptera

Dawn, dawn, dawn

The new millennium

Hide, hide, hide

Tiny arachniaii

Fly up in the sky

My sweet diptera

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Snore, snore, snore

Sleep away in ignorance

Conform, conform, conform

Micro-amoeba

Consort, consort, consort

Aphids, thrips, and ticks

Upon the breathe of death

I extend my wings

Sing a song unto the eve

Forsaken chrysalis

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw

Voracious avatars

Sing a song

Of long lost

Forgotten lore

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Rise, rise, rise

My little lepidopterii

Fly, fly, fly

My little butterfly

Fly, fly, fly

My little lepidopterii

Fly away my dear, sweet butterfly

ROLLING BONES

Slow inhaling

Intoxicating

Further poisoning this miasmic room

So uninspired

Perpetually tired

And I can't seem to catch my grip

So much time I've wasted

Lingering in haste

Can't go on like this

Won't go on like this

And a door softly opens

Your ghost fast approaches

Won't go on like this

Can't go on like this

Cannot go on like this

Won't go on like this

Why won't your ghost leave me alone?

I don't know

So here I sit

Rollin' bones

Rollin' bones

Rollin' bones

Rollin' bones

Malnutrition

Of this decision

Left you a broken excuse for a mess

So undeserving

Though still yearning

I await the end of all this

Expectantly anxious

And yet, still patient

I approve this message

I won't go on like this

I just can't go on like this

I thought you'd leave me my space

But your ghost still haunts my dreams

I can't go on like this

Won't go on like this

I just can't go on like this

I just won't go on like this

Why don't you haunt someone else?

No one knows

So let's roll them bones

Rollin' bones

Rollin' bones

Rollin' bones

Rollin' bones

And I can see

Your eidolon is rising

And I can feel

Your shadow that's still looming

And I can see

Your eidolon is rising

And I can feel

Your shadow that's still looming

Inhibition

The new attrition

Won't relieve this duress

Un-emotive

Yet, slightly explosive

I'm about to unhinge

Waddling through waste

Such an acerbic taste

I can't go on like this

I just won't go on like this

I can't accept such a fate

Not as I am today

I just won't go on like this

I just can't go on like this

Will not go on like this

Just not like this

An amorphic figure rises

In my mind you're smiling

Saying, "Roll them bones"

Rollin' bones

Rollin' bones

Rollin' bones

Rollin' bones

Rollin' bones

Rollin' bones

I can see your eidolon is thriving

I can feel your shadow that's still looming

Why does your ghost still haunt this place?

I sense an apparition arriving

And in the gloom I'm recoiling

But everywhere I turn I still see your face

You inhabit my dreams

You egg-on my addictions

And then taunt me

Why do you still linger?

Why so hesitant to cross-over?

I refuse to go on this way

Out, damn spot!

Dissipate and fade away

Slow inhaling

Intoxicating

Just roll them bones

RELAX, MAX

Been livin' in your head

Got's to get outta bed

Remember what mama said

Wake up child, and hit the ground a-runnin'

No time to excuse

I been done broke loose

Watch out, now

I'm a-movin' and a-shakin'

Been immured for quite some time

Chipping bricks and feelin' fine

But when fine's not good enough

Ya just gotta break the whole damn wall

So, relax, Max

Keep your head above water

Relax, Max

Let's a-roll in the hay

Relax, Max

'Cause the past is all fodder

So, relax, Max

'Cause today's a brand new day today

Ha!

Been under a storm cloud

Since I lived this out-loud

Now I'm wearing a clown's frown

Wake up child, and let's make a-that a-bacon

No need to refute

When truth is truth

Watch yourself, now

I'm a-shakin' and a-quakin'

Been splitting hairs for quite some time

Stacking bricks and feelin' fine

But when fine's not good enough

Ya just gotta draw that line

So, relax, Max

Keep your head above water

Relax, Max

Let's a-roll in the hay

Relax, Max

'Cause the past is all fodder

So, relax, Max

'Cause today's a brand new day today

Ha!

A-movin' and a-groovin'

Let's make a-that a-bacon

Hustle and strut

A-movin' and a-shakin'

A-movin' and a-groovin'

Let's make a-that a-bacon

Hustle and strut

A-movin' and a-shakin'

So, just relax!

Been lurking in your crypt

Come on, snap out of it

Remember what mama said

Wake up child, and hit the ground a-runnin'

Stop all that abuse

And just put down the booze

Back off, now

I'm a-shiverin' and a-shakin'

Been encased in marble for some time

They chip my bricks

I smile, feelin' fine

They chip my bricks

I grin and take my turn

But when fine's not good enough

Ya just gotta smash that urn

So, relax, Max

Keep your head above water

Relax, Max

Let's a-roll in the hay

Relax, Max

'Cause the past is all fodder

So, relax, Max

'Cause today's a brand new day today

Relax, Max

Keep your head above water

Relax, Max

Let's a-roll in the hay

Relax, Max

'Cause the past is all fodder

So, relax, Max

'Cause today's a brand new day today

Ha!

Watch out, now

I'm a-hustlin' and a-struttin'

Back off, now

I'm a-movin' and a-shakin'

Watch out, now

I'm a-shiverin' and a-shakin'

Back off, now

I'm a-movin' and a-groovin'

Watch out, now

I'm a-hustlin' and a-struttin'

Back off, now

I'm a-movin' and a-shakin'

Watch out, now

I'm a-shiverin' and a-shakin'

Back off, now

I'm a-movin' and a-groovin'

So, relax!

THE ADDICT

Suck it up

Suck it up

When gettin' soused

Just ain't enough

And you dread the dawn of another day

Been messing up

Messing up

Why are you still so fucked up?

When you arise before the dawn of another day

Here I face another crossroad

A path before not ambled

Caducity, I grip the window

Amidst an age of constant struggles

Toughen up

Toughen up

Let the spirit

Raise you up

So you can see the light of another day

Been screwing up

Screwing up

Why are you still gettin' so fucked up?

Do you still dread the dawn of another day?

Here I stand before the fray

A place before not entered

Cachectic, I grasp the steering wheel

Driving through a field of constant heartache

Sober up

Sober up

So you can

Have some real fun

And reach for the beaming rays of another day

Loosen up

Loosen up

Don't take it all so serious

And we'll awake before the dawn of another day

Here I stand upon a plateau

Awake, alive, unable

Too secure within this burden

An age of constant hurting

Soak it up

Soak it up

Let the sunshine

Warm you up

And illuminate the path of another day

Sharpen up

Sharpen up

To a fine razor's edge

So you can fight the fight of another day

Here I mourn another bottle

Fractured on the front lawn

My hands now are shaking

Amidst an age of constant aching

Buckle up

Buckle up

Just strap

This harness on

Don't you deserve the dawn of another day?

What the fuck

What the fuck

Why am I

Still so damn drunk

Why so petrified of another day?

Here I lurk beneath the archway

Here I stand upon a crossroad

Here I smash another window

Febrile and unable

In an age of constant struggle

Here I linger on the precipice

Here I turn another handle

Here I burn another bridge

Disillusioned and perplexed

In an age of constant hex

Here I sit and throttle

Yet another bottle

Immersed deep in wallow

In an age of constant sorrow

INTERMISSION

(VENGEANCE BEREAVED)

Once there was light

And I spared from these wretched reveries

But now, no more

This is my gift

This is my curse

I granted the levity of sight

And now see things beyond belief

For as long as I can remember

I've been plagued

Night after night

Dream after dream

Without reprieve

Except for you, my dove

But now you're gone

You flew the coop

My light is gone

And incipiently the dark returns

Night after night

Dream after reverie

I endure horribly vivid nightmares

But, that's not the worst part

The worst part is that upon waking

I still remember my dreams

In full detail

CONNIPTION

I'm outside my skin

I'm withering from within

Too far gone to re-live

I'm not doing this again

You're dithering

From emancipation

Far too blurred

To read the signs

Ostracize on over-time

Can't be numb all the time

Can't feel good all the time

Half-assed is not your best

I thought I passed all your tests

I'm raising a fit

Not raising my fist

Suffering is just a notion

Surviving

Conniption

I'm darkening

I'm still feigning

Crutching on atrocities

What the fuck is wrong with me?

You're vacillating

I'm anticipating

Hyper-tense and fluctuating

Is this even worth waiting?

Can't be dumb all the time

Can't feel happy all the time

Half-cocked is just a disguise

Too besotted to realize

I'm raising a fit

Not raising a fist

Suffering's a connotation

Enduring

Conniption

Can't be stupid all the time

Can't play the fool, draw the line

Can't win the battle every time

Can't keep wasting all this time

Too content in this condition

Staving off

Conniption

I'm still uninspired

Still so perpetually tired

Thriving on eccentricities

Inhaling this disease

You're unmotivated

Ubiquitous in your anger

Still you demoralize

So conditioned I don't bat my eyes

Can't be right all the time

Can't be wrong all the time

Arguments are just a distraction

Still awaiting a real reaction

I'm raising a fit

Not raising a fist

Super-imposed and glamorized

Are we still donning this disguise?

I'm raising Hell

Not above this thrill

Too ignorant too realize

I'm no longer on your vibe

I'm raising a fit

Not raising a fist

No more humorous anecdotes

This dray, not evenly yoked

Arriving upon

Dark conclusions

Into abyss

Severance

Massive thorn

Maudlin

Masochist

Conniption!

3 WHITE WOLVES

Once, I went upon a journey

A vision quest to test merit and mettle

But, there were many hardships before me

I came upon a midnight dreary

And there I saw a crow softly weeping

'Cause it was not itself

And I asked, "Why so woeful in lament?"

The crow squawked and prattled

But had no voice to call its own

But in my head I heard the words

Beware the three white wolves

And so I trekked onward

Into unknown misty vines

Where the first wolf hunted

Stayed downwind all the time

And then I crept upon him

Into the monster's den

Waiting on all fours

The first white wolf said

Prayers led me out, but visions drew me here

Prayers led me out, but visions drew me here

And I asked the white wolf if he would eat me

He said, "No, my child, for you are still asleep"

And so I clambered onward

Upon ridged, rocky cliffs

Where the second wolf lingered

No-doubt, sensing my presence

Into the beastie's burrow

Flaunting massive claws

The second white wolf said

Misery flushed me out, but hope guides my soul

Misery flushed me out, but hope guides my soul

And I asked the white wolf, "Would you devour me?"

"No, my son, for you are still asleep"

And so I traversed onward

Into the great unknown

Where the third wolf hungered

Could feel its thirst in my bones

Into the bestial's liar

Standing on two paws

The third wolf pontificated

Hate sought me out, but love clutched me dear

Hate sought me out, but love clutched me dear

And I asked the white wolf, "Will you now eat me"

"No, my poor sweet child, your meat's no longer sweet"

"Ruined from the decades"

"And the way you treat those closest to your heart"

And then I was lost

Unscathed and yet, so alone

I perambulated back the way I came

As I navigated the stars

The three white wolves were gone

Yet, there words still beveled on me

And when I get back

I'll teach them all what I have learned

Faith brought me here, but science got me home

Faith got me here, but science brought me home

Faith brought me here, but science got me home

Faith got me here, but science brought me home

Yeah, the signs led me home

GRUESOMELY HONEST

Gaze upon this face I can't change

Nothing else will ever feel the same

I know it seems deranged

But, I'm slowly coming to terms with this

Strayed such a long way from the storm

Like a new infant, I'm reborn

I know it seems deranged

But I'm slowly coming to peace

I placed you on a mountain

You staked me to a cross

Such a wide, gaping chasm

Ever the loss, ever the loss

Clutching white knuckles gripped tight

Is this pain my birthright?

I know it all seems so strange

But this is just how I am

Put up your dukes, and let's fight

With silver-tongues we demoralize

I know it seems so strange

But this is how we now communicate

I put you on a pedestal

Still love you from afar

Fly high and proud, my true dove

Wherever you are, wherever you are

Strut across hot coals and you'll see

How we all lie to ourselves

I know it seems deranged

But, I'm slowly coming to terms with this

Such an abrupt change in course

There's no pity here, no remorse

I know it sounds deranged

But, I'm slowly coming to peace

You framed me in your future

You coddled me close to your heart

I could never imagine

It'd all fall apart

Now, fall apart!

Well, what the hell did you ever see in me?

I'm not the one you want, obviously

I can never be that man

And it's so sad that you can't understand

Don't choke on a lie

For once, you're completely honest with me

Force socialized

And superficially demonized

So fly high and proud, my little dove

Don't underestimate your self-worth

Don't worry 'bout me, 'cause I'll be okay

Despite the fact that I live day-to-day

Anesthetized

It's the first time we've been honest with ourselves

Criminalized

And subsequently vilified

Wrote a letter to myself

Asking, what the hell's wrong with me?

Did I dismiss the best thing,

That ever happened to me?

Fly high and proud, my true dove

Ever the cost

Ever the loss

BLOOD ON THE STONE

Bleed me

Pure essence of Lithium

Feed me

To nourish my soul

Keep me

From jaded misery

Like a king of the mountain

On a quest for honor, glory, and gold

Speak to me

Like I'm not a child

See me

In a light of my own

Embrace me

Like it's my last sunset

Like a soldier on the frontline

And a long way from home

Treat me

As you would a neighbor

Believe me

We're not alone

Slay me

As if I were a dragon

On a quest for honor, glory, and gold

C'mon take me away

'Cause I don't know where I'm going

Just take my hand

And sing this song

I see fiery horizons

I see blood on the stone

Like a crook in the canyon

Like a carving through bone

I see fiery horizons

I see blood on the stone

Teach me

I'm far from perfect

Release me

With the gift of growth

Swim to me

Like you're treading water

Like I am the ocean

And you are the coast

Bathe me

In a summer's reflection

Forgive me

From my one regret

Breathe into me

Like you're a mother of somber

A giver of life

And a taker of it

I see fiery horizons

I see blood on the stone

Like a creep in the night

Like a crow in the storm

Like an ambush in waiting

Like a thorn on the rose

I see fiery horizons

I see blood on the stone

C'mon and take me away

So we're not alone

Just take my hand

And scream this song

Think of me

Only in memory

Forget me

Body and soul

Picture me

Jaded from misery

Like a foolish Crusader

Campaigning for glory, honor, and gold

Kiss me

Only in your dreams

Hold on to me

When you're all alone

Cerebrate

Only on the good times

Not the pain we found

Seeking fortunes untold

C'mon take my hand

'Cause I don't know where I'm going

Just take my hand

And sing this song

I see fiery horizons

I see blood on the stone

Like a crook in the canyon

Like a thief in the mire

Like a brook in the desert

Like a heart in the knife

I see fiery horizons

I see blood on the stone

Like a creep in the night

Like a crow in the storm

Like an ambush in waiting

Like a thorn on the rose

I see fiery horizons

I see blood on the stone

Like a sheep in wolf's clothing

Like a pernicious snake bite

Like a minute of hour

Like the wrong in the right

I see fiery horizons

I see blood on the stone

No matter what course we trek

Always seeking honor, glory, and gold

YOUR SIDE OF THE BED

Coagulating calculations

Misappropriated confrontations

Ego-matic self-inflations

Ignorance is bliss

When all you've known is suffering

Constipated motivations

Cravenly prescribed inhibitions

Post-apocalyptic mutilations

Ignorance is bliss

If all you' know is indifference

My will is gone

Still slogging on

I'll face this day

Waking up on

Your side of the bed

These maladies in my head

They will not abate

Can I not escape?

From your side of the bed

Metabolic connotations

Alliaceous with innovation

Self-induced calibration

Ignorance is bliss

When you never know what time it is

Constant flux of hibernation

Jeopardizing realization

Repatriate to revelation

Ignorance is bliss

When all you know is severance

But I'll drink this dawn

Allay the storm

I'll face this day

Waking up on

Your side of the bed

These maladies in my head

They will not abate

Can I not escape?

From your side of the bed

Meiosis in inoculation

Time-tested variables of frustration

Comatose periodic salutations

Ignorance is bliss

When no one else gives a shit

Tensility of prohibition

Ubiquitous with addiction

Miasmic rales of surreptitiousness

Imminence of psychiatric-fugue state

Ignorance is bliss

When all you know is self-effacement

Pusillanimous

Insidious

Death is not a door

But a temporary camouflage

Anhedonia

Hyperplasia

Ignorance is bliss

In a cryogenic chamber

Insomnia

Lost in delirium

Hell is not a place

But a conscientious illusion

I'll embrace this dawn

Still plodding on

I'll drink this day

Waking up on

Your side of the bed

These maladies in my head

They will not abate

Can I not escape?

From your memory

On your side of the bed

These reveries in my head

They leave me no reprieve

They tempt me with false-hope

They offer no repose

Is there no escape?

From your side of the bed

Your side of the bed!

NOBODY

When I was just a wee-pee sprout

Grandpa took me on the knee

He said the greatest things in life

Are those you cannot foresee

And one day, when you're much older

And your heart falls apart

You'll see the wisdom in these words

And know how strong you have become

He said, "Love somebody

Love someone

Love somebody, son

You're nobody

'Till you love somebody

Love somebody, someone"

When I was just a weeping toddler

Grandma swaddled me to her breast

She said the hardest things in life

Are those that test our limits

And one day, when you're much older

And your heart turns to stone

You'll see the wisdom in these worries

And know that you are not alone

She said, "Love somebody

Love someone

Love somebody, son

You're nobody

'Till you love somebody

Love somebody, someone"

When I was lost in ignorance

Father swatted my behind

He said the strangest thing in life

Is learning to walk the line

And one day, when you're much older

And your heart melts to lye

You'll see the wisdom in my sternness

And that knowledge will stand the test of time

He said, "Love somebody

Love someone

Love somebody, son

You're nobody

'Till you love somebody

Love somebody, someone"

When I was broken and disheartened

Mother called me on the phone

Bereaved and regretful

I could barely hold my tone

She asked how I was

She asked if I okay

She said the hardships you have endured

Are yours and yours, alone

I can't tell you what to do

I can't tell you what to say

Just know that I'm here for you

And one day, you will love again

My poor, sweet boy

My loving child

My one and only heart

If you can stand your own reflection

You'll see just how strong you have become

She said," Love somebody

Love someone

Love somebody, son

You're nobody

'Till you love somebody

Love somebody, someone

Love somebody

Love someone

Love somebody, son

You're nobody

'Till you love somebody

Love somebody, someone

Love somebody, someone

Love somebody, someone

Love some body, someone

Love somebody

Son"

###

About **the author:**

Joshua S. Friedman is a quiet, secluded man bearing down for the impending apocalypse.

Other books

The Chronicles of Dog and Troll: Book 1 – Of Dog and Troll

The Chronicles of Dog and Troll: Book 2 – The Diary of Myriam Star

The Chronicles of Dog and Troll: Book 3 – The Fall of Al'ber Que

I've Always Been a Poet, 'Though I Didn't Always Know It

The Day the Whole World Went Away

Buy books, check out future titles, and get more info on me and the world of Dog and Troll

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