Monthly Archives: November 2011

Thanksgiving for the King’s Crossing


The words we implore can sometimes persuade things to go accordingly. Then there are moments where words maim and cut deep into what meaning of existence we have left. The thinner the yarn holding up your reality, the sharper and more true your words become. My yarn is thin. Anorexic, even. And when you congregate contentment with the futility in arguing against god, or the universe, or the chi, or what have you, the yarn will still hold.

It is an argument against an opponent of whom uncertainty is key in their manifest. The roll of the filthy dice, can land at evens or odds. This only insinuates a displaced hope that keeps your yarn holding. It is when hope is taken away that the tie is severed. Hope is reality, that is why we push. We push and push and push until our insides are out like the trash, our hearts on our sleeves. Care. To care is to love and back, making care a proprietor of hope. When you have nothing, you have nothing to lose. Nothing but hope, if it’s warranted. But how do we discern what is warranted? What do you care about in life that keeps you pushing? Your children? Your families? Your wives and husbands? Your friends? If you have none of these, you’ are permitted to go all in, nothing but to gain. But if you do have these, I have something to say; “Never will you feel the kind of loneliness you feel when everything you care about hasn’t an ounce of hope to spare you.”

You’ve tasted it before. When you’ve mustered enough courage to ask for something you need, and their first response wasn’t a yes or a no, but a hesitation. It tastes rancid to the point where it feels like the twisting of a blade after it has stabbed you. If you ever want to know who your friend’s were, ask them for a favor even you would deny. Watch the dissipation into thin air, the faith you thought they had in your being.

It’s Thanksgiving. Caustically fitting to my manifest. I do not write this in a bitter tone, I do not write this to maim. I write this because you realize somewhere down the line that you’ve no need to escape from who you are anymore. I have come from zero to a man who had the world in his hands and back. I have lost more than what I had initially begun with. I have loved something eternally, and lost something forever. I have believed and denounced everything behind the sun. And now I’ve lost not only myself, but my mind has begun packing. I had asked for the belief in me from those I loved and discovered my worth. And though I’ve blinked through highs and lows, then result will always be, for everyone, that we will have not ascertained anything on our deathbed. The last dying gasp you give, will not be a bad one, nor a good one. The last dying gasp you give is and will always be the punchline to an unmemorable joke.

There were only four things that were ever worth anything to me. But like all things, I could not take them with me; the sound of the piano keys, the laughter of a child who hadn’t yet understood the wretched ways of the world, the tears of someone whom never wanted to see yours, and the sound of water being poured.

Again, I do not write this bitterly or to hurt anyone. I no longer have the strength to care if I did. I spent the last few months finalizing my paperwork for my terrestrial visa, and learned to appreciate life more than I had my entire life. The flowers really do smell beautiful. I wasn’t bright enough to plant my own, but it’s too late. Some people in their 60’s realized too late they hadn’t danced enough while they were young. I realized I was a cat at the end of my ninth life. Maybe that’s why they had so many. I spent too much time trying to convince myself I was everyone’s best friend, a dog, because I had never liked cats. They seemed cold and soulless inside. I didn’t like the idea of being cold on the inside and faking warmth on the outside, because it wouldn’t matter at all whether you had nine lives or ninety-nine.

If you continue to be cold on the inside with those you love, you’ll end up not giving a damn about it at all. What’s your point, then?

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Filed under non-fiction rambling, rhetoric

Excerpt deleted from Condor of the Alexandria

We were going to listen to dumb obscure shit at the party, I figured. Tom would probably tell us the singer recorded all the vocals to their songs in different cities while sitting on a little red wagon with a homemade potato microphone, or anything else the band we were listening to, did to be less obscure.

The jumps into a pool were one of the highest points of self-esteem and confidence kids could have in themselves, and made you watch because they wanted you to see how happy they were with themselves. A small handful of kids got to keep that feeling going till they became a kid again. Most will see that feeling less and less. Some weren’t given a chance at all.

Recording crappy songs through a potato was like setting up a vigil for a broken heart or a headless gummi-bear on the corner of 7th and Flower during lunchtime. People would walk around it to get to their lunch. Those who stopped to pay a little respect, would realize the 12 seconds of the lunch break they had paid to the scam-vigil was non-refundable. Those bands might want us to watch all the ways they can jump in a pool next. If they could do it AND stay dry, I’ll watch. I’ll buy a fucking album, and listen to it!

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Filed under allegory, stories

Unemployed America.

I went to a job fair the other week to support a friend with his search for employment. I needed a job too. Except my friend needed one for survival while I did for sanity. What I saw at the fair was horrible.

I stopped at a booth for a mortuary. They needed someone to counsel families of the recently deceased. “id be great at that,” I thought, “plus I get to be right next to the graves, not in them.” The mortuary director talked to me about it. Her skin was milk white, but shiny. Like plastic. The words she spoke were paced and precise, as was her smile. She was like a robot mannequin. She said the same things to everyone that walked by her booth. The mortuary director was more dead than her customers.

I walked by a stand that said BYD. I had no idea what it stood for. The two attendants in the booth looked really sad. I would be too, if no one came to my booth. Of course, my booth would be a kissing booth, which no one would come to anyway… SO! I leaned in, said hello, waved, and looked at the pamphlet of their literature on the desk. “BYD” stood for “Build Your Dreams.” A tear could have fallen at anytime from the attendants eyes and a little boy would skip in front of a city bus. No dreams today.

I walked by the booth for the federal aviation department. It was empty. Just the sign, which seemed to dangle there, lop-sided. I remember when flying was only a dream to Howard Hughes, but the empty aviation stand suggested they would only be dreams once again.

“did you find anything

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