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mr. iD

Whip batteries at it

Don’t like it

grab it

Attack it

Got an itch, scratch it

See a mole, whack it

Hear a joke, laugh at it

Then steal it

Take credit for it

Take it

Put it

In a vault and latch it

DON’T GIVE IT

HOARD IT

 
 

newborn’s song

I have a son; no daughter yet.

How long until we’re finally met.

What ancient jug will fill with water,

when child born, bear no regret.

If one is sea, and other land,

the first is heart and other head.

Fate will land a chancing blow,

a favored child will surely grow.

Existence be a fickle game.

If time should stop and never change,

a soulless fraction stood unsolved,

resumed amidst the newborn’s song.

 
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Posted by on June 24, 2017 in poetry, Uncategorized, writing

 

Jed from Arkansas

Curled up in your egg-crate bed, compulsively licking yourself, you don’t know, nor care, that your breath smells like the worst expired shellfish dinner known to man.  And let me tell you, it’s gotten worse.  Once it was more like a freshwater Tilapia, now it’s a full blown Louisiana mud-puppy.  You’ve got the strangest skin growths and, I won’t lie, they worry me a little bit.  There’s a really weird pink, bulbous one on your face. And you’ve got these weird white spots on your nose.

For the love of God man, stop licking yourself.

You hate thunderstorms worse than Kelly does but at least you love the snow.  And I love the way you army-crawl when you’re happy, although it makes your tummy dirty.  It makes your shamrock tag jingle against your rabies tag. And I’m super sorry about your nails being so long, I’m just afraid I’ll cut that little vein; you’ll bleed all over the place and I’ll have to bust out the cornstarch.  I will inevitably make a huge mess and have to bust out the vacuum which will inevitably blow a fuse and I’ll have to bust out the….. fuse box.

I often think about how your life would have gone if we hadn’t brought you up from Arkansas.  You definitely wouldn’t be seeing as much snow, so I’m sure you’re thankful for that.  Up here in New England you live a more….sedentary lifestyle.  I’m positive you’d be a bit more active down on whatever ranch or farm you lived on.  And that old guy Perry sure was something else, wrinkled to the bone but kind as all else.  He would have treated you just fine.  And you for sure would have had more friends to play with, though I know those big, hyper dogs make you a bit verklempt.  Maybe there would be less little kids in your life?  I’m not sure.

I’m sorry about that transition period a few years ago.  I know you were used to sleeping on the bed, and then Kelly and I got married and the man that used to be the fun Uncle that took you out to pee was now sleeping in your spot.  Please understand however that most dogs sleep on the floor and we did compromise by offering you the chair.  And, if I’m being really honest, that chair smells terrible now.  You should be thankful.

You know, if you keep on with the licking you’re not gonna have any hair left….

I still love ya though.

 
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Posted by on January 31, 2014 in writing

 

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Mister’s Darkness

Mister commands the scene, the bills are drafted and memos sent. He’s practiced his reactions, he’s done this before.

But there’s still the darkness.

Mister is known for constancy and work-ethic, now people look to him for answers, he hasn’t had to toil with the dregs. No more fluorescent lights to guide him, everything simulates natural light. Oak or chestnut, that’s his landscape. And glass. Large panes of glass.

Periodically sickness overcomes him. His stomach is overtaken by cramping in these moments, his already irritable nature made more irritable. Flashes of light, sudden movements, questions of any kind, requests made of him leads him to fury. He’ll whip his head so violently his neck spasms and his posture resembles that of a lifelong loom operator.

Mister has responsibilities, you see.  Investors rely on his answers to their questions and he’s made speculation into an art.  Mister is a king-maker, his proteges make good Misters.  And the world needs Misters.  Without him, indeed you wouldn’t have urban decay, but you wouldn’t have the metropolis that comes with it.  People command instantaneous results, the products must be on the shelves unspoiled, and the supply must meet the demand.

It’s Mister’s job to analyze that demand and to acquire the specific reason the demand is there in the first place.  He must then allocate the researchers and the testers to make that demand into a desire.  An outlet is then provided for that desire to manifest into capital.  And the capital must be repatriated.

Sixty stories does not a functioning corporation make, but neither do the minds that occupy them.  Not even Mister’s mind serves as an indispensable component of this process, rather, the process defines the result.  And Mister created the process.

Well, Mister did not create the process really, the process existed before him in various forms.  But no other process worked quite as efficiently, quite as seamlessly under the leadership of any other Mister.  Mister is the Mister of Misters.  The laborers know it, management knows it, retailers know it, everyone within the supply chain recognizes the distinct fortune that comes with serving this particular Mister.

They do not, however, see the darkness.

Darkness is not measured in crystal, cotton blends, German engineering, graphs, charts, automated environment control, bills of sale, deeds, blind trusts and a staff that could easily operate the Titanic.  These things do insulate the darkness.

Insulation such as this provides no escape and no avenue for gratification or release.  Mother made sure of this in the beginning, but now his prison is of his own making.

Oh yes, if not for Mother, Mister may not have the darkness.  But Mother instilled propriety into Mister’s very being and existence, Mother provided the foundation for the darkness.  And, additionally, Mother gave him the scars that no one can see, or should see, or ever will see.  Not if Mister can help it.

Mother knew nothing of supply demand, repatriating revenue, blind trusts, steel, glass, oak or chestnut.  What Mother did know was how to keep things quiet.  Always quiet, always careful, always invisible.  No potatoes in the stew for the potatoes were harvested by the dirty neighbors across the way.  No vinyl records for Mister, the noise made it too easy for the demons to come in.

Mister still doesn’t listen to records and abstains from potatoes if he can help it.  He operates on a steady diet of freshly caught fish, leeks from the garden, and distilled whiskey.  And darkness.  And profit.

 
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Posted by on January 14, 2014 in fiction, prose, writing

 

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#community (not the T.V. show)

What makes a community? A community is a group of people. To have a community you typically have a bunch of buildings. Communities have not only people, but people doing things. What kinds of things do people do? People go to church, people go to school, people have jobs, people go to restaurants, people are having arguments with each other, people are telling jokes, people are going to grocery stores. What makes one community different from another community? Communties have different levels of education, some communities have more trash lying around, some have meaner people, some have nicer people, some have areas of the city or town where people go to shop, sometimes those shopping centers have fancy cloths, sometimes it’s just a big box variety store. A community can be a town, a city, a suburb, a collection of farmers, a bunch of students, a group of cops, firefighters, or other government workers. Communities pay attention to their local sports team, a smaller group of people will say that they don’t care about those things. People usually have a consensus about general vibe of their living in that city, whether the city is a shithole or a swell place to live. Sometimes it’s just okay. Communities have people that usually speak the same language, but there are definitely communities where that isn’t the case. In Texas, where I grew up, a lot of people spoke Spanish and often you would see spanish on signs in certain parts of town. In that place where I grew up you either saw Spanish or English, but in another place I lived you saw Vietnamese, Cambodian, and Thai pretty often. I know in L.A. you’ll see Korean all over the place. A community to me means….well that’s why I started this journal I guess. I don’t really know. I went to church, yes, I went to school, yes, I had family, of course, but I just existed within those constructs, I didn’t define them. Obviously, that seems to be the point though, it’s very difficult to be a trailblazer in every moment of your life, like every moment you’re redefining genres and like, punk rock all the time. Really though, I don’t think I went far enough with any group of people or activity to really define myself by that community. I’m not really a writer, or an artist, I don’t have a skill or a trade, and jesus why is everything I write part of an existential crisis. Man up, you fucking coward, stop constantly looking inward, it’s really really really bad for you. You’re a nice guy, why do this to yourself all the time? Every panic attack you pull out of thin air due to a feeling of failure and emptiness shortens your life by a few minutes.

I make fun of my wife for being afraid of storms and constantly watching disaster videos on youtube. But fuck me for doing that, she watches that shit because she feels something by watching it, who am I to critique someone’s reaction to a natural occurance? Even if I percieve it as negative, she actually engages with the world around her. I feel like I never do that!!! Everything is a reflection of me, I see everything within the scope of my artistic or social interpretation of it. The fucking ego of that! WHO THE FUCK AM I TO ACT AS IF I SEE THINGS SO DIFFERENTLY FROM EVERYONE ELSE?

 
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Posted by on January 14, 2014 in depression, prose, random, writing

 

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A False Need

I see your face through distorted, sepia-toned, trans-dimensional drifts, and I can’t tell if you’re a boy or a girl, and I can’t see how old you are or what you’ve become, but I know you’re there.  Somewhere.  You exist to me in the here and now, I love you so very much, and if I could just find that wormhole that would suck me in and bring me to you, maybe that huge void that’s been with me all along would make sense.

I was meant to be your savior, your lifeline, your friend and guiding light.  I would teach you the meanings of the words nuance, relativity, acceptance, and discernment.  I could give you the gift of music.  I could teach you how to dance, ultimately giving life and purpose to your every movement.  I would tell you it’s all in the wrist, keep your eye on the ball, just let if go, you’re better than that.

But is that how it would be?

More likely you would learn from me what everyone learns from everyone else;  propriety, limitations, regulations, the value of a dollar.  That false premise that you exist independently of those lesser creatures and archetypes.  You would have to be someone else when you’re with me and I would willingly accept whatever character you created for me.  If you showed me something genuine and imperfect, or something less than angelic, I’d extend to you a stoic, passive, smirking rejection.  And it wouldn’t make sense to you until you reach the retrospective haze of your mid-twenties.

But at the apex of your soul-searching you would find my legacy…

Extended to you, bequeathed to my possession, would be my void and need to create an existential crisis.  And the cycle perpetuates.  Feel my anxiety, you little clone….

 
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Posted by on January 10, 2014 in poetry, prose, random, writing

 

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