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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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Neurons and Synapses

It’s the sense of self that betrays
any contentedness.
What you think you are
or should be, or could be
doesn’t serve any purpose
but entertainment
and speculation.
People feed their ego
in different ways
but it’s not always
to glorify
the persona.
Sometimes it’s to feel like
you’re doing
your due diligence
or to re-approach the prophecies
proclaimed by the ones who claim to love you,
who don’t really know you
or want to know.

We get cold, you know,
and hardened to other’s imperfections;
their false analysis
of who you are or what you should be.
They don’t exist without you, or you them,
being exactly as you, or they, are
as you, or they, could not be
any other way.
And when you change and they don’t
or if you don’t and they do
don’t be afraid to point out
and confront
your utter and desperate confusion
as to why you can never meet
in the middle
like Benjamin Button.

After all this
what I really feel to be the truth
is that your brain
is a motherfucker.
Consider this:
Neurons and Synapses firing at irregular intervals
coupled with abnormal oxygenation and variable light, sound, scent and touch stimuli
leads to a potential for unorthodox behavioral interludes,
additionally perpetrated by periodic euphoria and delirium
which at times can be symptomatic with abnormal sleeping patterns,
inconsistent nutrition and dietary habits,
and situation driven emotional reactivity.

So, yeah, that’s why we’re crazy.

 
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Posted by on January 29, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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State of the Union

Stand. Sit. Applause. Stand. Sit. Applause.

I believe in the social welfare of the masses blah blah blah health care, people can’t pay their bills blah blah blah
Look at this veteran dude, his head looks funny because he got bombed for nothing and it’s our fault blah blah blah

Stand. Sit. Applause. Stand. Sit. Applause.

The most pressing issues of our time CAN’T be fixed by the government.  But the problem isn’t that people don’t like jazz or don’t go to museums or whatever.  The problem isn’t that people listen to Justin Bieber or watch Youtube too much.  It’s not some perceived lack of focus or intrinsic laziness. 

The problem is people think that they’re right.  Or more moral.  Or are better than another person.  That their existence, relatively compared to another’s, is more significant. 

I just had a teeth cleaning and an eye exam free because of Obamacare.  Does that mean that Obamacare works?  I have no fucking clue.  You can’t gauge that shit by some editorialized account of ONE person’s experience.  It’s not until 5, 10, 15, 50 years have passed that you have the benefit of historical hindsight.  And even then, that very hindsight means nothing because the situation that exists, theoretically, is completely different from the one you had 5, 10, 15, 50 years ago.  What did you learn? 

Well you didn’t learn nothing.  Congratulations, you can apply historical precedent to virtually ANY situation.

I just drove through Fall River and noticed that the streets are in absolute disrepair.  I noticed that any part of the city that has significant business activity almost certainly includes a McDonalds and a Dunkin’ Donuts.  Who’s fault is that?  I DON’T FUCKING KNOW!  And I don’t even know how to find out!  Someone tell me, who do I blame?  And before you answer, please consider that your answer will most definitely be wrong.  Why is it that I’ve only been able to find seasonal/temporary employment over the past 4 years? Again, YOU DON’T KNOW!

But let me tell you why.  It’s because I have depression.  It’s because I don’t know how to motivate myself.  It’s because I can’t, for the life of me, wake up before noon on any given day.  But am I the reason why there’s national discord?  Am I the symbol of an entitlement society or lazy millennials?  Either way, how does my unique situation contribute to the national debate?

It doesn’t. 

Polls are meaningless because people’s opinions are meaningless. 

We need to stop trying to figure this shit out.

 
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Posted by on January 29, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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F*CK your lawn

Overgrown you say?
Flowers, though wild, do not appeal
to your pristine senses?

I say,
maybe you’re wasting time
trimming your grass
daily.

Hmm?

I say,
maybe your yard,
your stupid yard
is boring
and lacks personality.

Hmm?

And maybe,
the ecosystem, living
under the ice
in my
above ground pool
is far more humane
than the chlorine factory
you keep in your backyard.

Hmm?

And maybe,
my bushes have
too many limbs,
no symmetry to them
at all,
but yours
piss me off
with their sculpted form.
Your vanilla arrangements
ain’t got nothing
on my
Rocky Road.
Bitch.

 
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Posted by on January 17, 2014 in cynical, poetry, Uncategorized

 

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Possession

Atop a gathering of pregnant pauses stands the glimmering pale light of the mystic man.  Healing sutras and incantations abound within the swirling soup of his consciousness though his modest dress balances the embellishment of his spirit.  

He appraises the specter lodged into the soul of the afflicted.  A wild display and a cresting burst of kinetic possession, the flailing of the limbs silences the crowd as he, step after step, glides closer to the source of the commotion.  His sandals barely touch the floor of impacted dirt.  Hands now outstretched, he gently places the heels of his hands upon the temples of the possessed.

“Amun-em, brother.”

A widening of eyes now appearing lidless, the afflicted plants his feet firmly and a quick grasp of his enemy’s wrists startles entranced spectators.  Although appearing to struggle with the taut pressure of twisted twine, indeed with elbows and knees trembling, His Holiness remains composed with the proof of The Blessing.

“Amun-em, I caress thy spirit…”

“Off, off, off, you servant! Thou hath no influence within this cloister!” as a violent exhortation.

Simply placing his thumbs over the eyes of the afflicted, the lids close as if by self-command and his knees relax as His Holiness leads him to a genuflect.

Presented now to the masses is a divine portrait.  The healer manipulates the will of the weak and hapless vagrant placed into a submissive form.  Blinding light bounds through film covered windows and illuminates this new scene of deliverance.

To the masses:

“Go now and recount what you have seen to all you meet.  Reach both hands towards the realm of gentle Amun and give everything of yourself to the divine.  Every moment has been written, every tale has been told, and you must live each day according to it’s will…”

“Amun-em, Bless you all…”

And then, like a host of dragonflies, he disappeared into the damp morning and forevermore became our waking breaths.

 

 
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Posted by on January 16, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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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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#ghetto lyfe

Across the wooden planks, they creak so loudly,
handrails peeling like victims of an acid rain,
Though the carpet on the porch makes no sense to me,
frozen water trapping the dead leaves and squirrels,
yeah let’s not mention that above ground pool bullshit.
Tarp came off the lawnmower a long time ago and the gas can exposed to the elements, 
and lets not mention I put the gas in the car, 
obviously using a severed 2 liter Coke bottle and…. A mangled Coke CAN fashioned into a funnel.
I’m big on product placement in my ghetto-ness I guess, though it’s not like I have a contract with Walmart or anything.
Anyway, nobody knows what’s in the corrugated tin shed,
I’m not at all sorry that I nailed the shingles back to the house, it looks better from the street at least.
We raked the yard, put the leaves in bags 2 months after everybody else did, and yeah we left those on the side of the road.
And let’s not mention all that other ghetto shit either.

 
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Posted by on January 13, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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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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