Untitled, because I'm that mysterious.

What is it about sitting in the forest at night that makes one feel like a feather falling from the highest to the lowest point, stuck in some perpetual zig-zag down the wind currents as gravity pushes one down towards the inevitable end? It is so quiet, the trees seem to look down at you, or rather where you are sitting, knowing that soon you will have to leave, but they will be there for hundreds of years, aging and aging but still remaining, while you age and die, wither away into the dust that always lies at the end of any path. The silence, it looms over you like a massive piano full of weights, pushing you down some sort of hole of terror. Yet this terror almost feels good. Maybe terror is not the right word for it, maybe it shall be referred to as awe. Yes, it is the awe that is that impending disaster that is the piano, it is awe that forces you to contemplate the futility of existence, your tiny-ness in the grand scheme of things, because there is one, random and unfair as it maybe be there is one. It is in the forest at night where one discovers such amazing things as out of body experiences and meditation. You levitate towards some higher state of being, one unoccupied by you until just now, which gives one a feeling of power, yes, power, joy, now it is you they awe! But then you drop, fast, and you plummet off of your throne. You think of something else, somebody else, what they said, or did, what they looked like, and your concentration is broken, you rub your head into confusion as you ponder the rationality of what just happened and you think it was maybe all just a dream, maybe this is all just a dream, what if we are just small particles attached to the buttocks of some dust mite that makes its home under the couch of some poor middle class family in which the father figure is named Bob, and Bob is rather allergic to dust mites, and so as the mite crawls up and up, it flits its way to the top of the couch, jumps into the air, flies over near Bob, and then: sneeze, the forceful ejection of air and snot and who knows what else is so strong that the mite is flung, flung across the room and smashes into the wall and dies, and there is the apocalypse, presented to you by the fine ladies of the 23rd Street Brothel and Playhouse. The stars peer confusedly as you peer confusedly at them, wondering how a ball of gas remains in such a shape with such volatile nuclear reactions going on inside them, why don’t they explode like a woman on her period and fling themselves like the dust mite against some cosmic wall, and the stars wonder how a collection of bones muscles and blood vessels and whatnot packaged up in a big fancy bag of skin with some hair in a few places retains its shape instead of just slumping into nonexistence and how that somehow breeds consciousness. So take off your clothes, dance nude through the forest, be free, etc. Scream like there’s no tomorrow, because there probably isn’t, and who gives a shit anyways, what is tomorrow that means so much that you always have to be worrying about it and therefore cannot enjoy it when it comes because tomorrow never comes, right when you think it is almost hear it recedes into the distant future, once again to torture you because you cannot control it, you cannot control your own fate or destiny, you are destined to be eaten up by the worms just like the rest of us, decomposing until all that is left of you is a tombstone, some bones and a few certificates certifying that you, indeed, did exist, because that really matters, it matters so much that you existed, you, a tiny dot in a tiny dot in a tiny dot in a tiny dot in a tiny dot that is the visible universe, the limit of what we can perceive, because what we can perceive becomes larger and larger every moment, but what we cannot does the same, the vast universe of mystery.

The Spear

Jean was a librarian, and a pretty decent one at that. She wore dull-colored clothing to work everyday and had glasses, the circular kind. She read avidly and always had suggestions for anybody who bothered to ask. All of her male colleagues had beards, as they were all English majors.
Bad things happen to librarians, too, oddly enough. She was walking to work one day – she lived about a block away from “the grand bastion of literature” as she called her place of employment – when a spear fell out of the sky and landed right in front of her, point down in the grass. If the spear had dropped even a second later, that grass would have been her and she would have been impaled through the head straight down. I am rather pleased that this did not happen, as it would be a rather boring story, like ones about recovering from an incident usually are (as opposed to the incident itself), and it would also be rather graphic and I would have had to waste a large amount of time, words, and finger-muscle strength to convey to the reader the disgustingness of the scene, which didn’t happen. Digressing from my digression, back to what actually happened. Jean grasped the spear’s shaft with both hands and pulled as hard as she could until she managed to release the spear from the incredibly dense soil that was present in the area. She examined it:
Looked Indian, with those little notches on the head that let you know it was handmade and not just produced in some factory. The shaft which she had been gripping very tightly beforehand was carved all over with strange markings that she supposed to be Indian. She lived in northeastern France and so it was not very uncommon to encounter Indian spears falling out of the sky and nearly missing one’s head. Exited by this discovery for no comprehensible reason, she quickly grabbed the spear – it was not very large – and ran to find the nearest taxi. She could almost hear the uptempo bebop soundtrack booming out in real life like in a New Wave film, as she ran for the taxi. It only got worse once she got into the taxi, and the driver began to drive at about fifteen miles an hour, and although we are in France, I’m no big fan of calculations. Naturally, she assumed that she must be going crazy, and therefore ate some of her crazy pills that she had always kept on her person, because one never knows when the situation one is in requires the eating of crazy pills. Unfortunately, somebody had switched the pills with a rather strong hallucinogenic substance, therefore making her actually crazy where she had been simply over-imaginative before.
Naturally, taxis and hallucinogens do not mix very well. She jumped out of the car with a scream as soon as she saw her first squid and began pounding on the black asphalt in a somewhat LUGUBRIOUS and IRRELEVANT sorrow when compared to her situation. As she beat on the ground, holes began to form, big black holes. Supposing they were wormholes when they were actually sinkholes, she jumped in with a scream of joy that was exactly the opposite of lugubrious and promptly sank to her death in the mud, as the asphalt was not asphalt but actually mud, she was a very good jumper and had cleared the street and the sidewalk and landed in the mud by the road – it had just rained and the soil was getting very soggy.
The spear, however, survived, and lived happily ever after.

Walk

I was taking a walk. They say the first step is the hardest and that’s generally true. You have to stand up, groan, lace up and tie your shoes, and even then you’re only physically prepared. But not mentally; that takes more effort, something which is very difficult to gain. Effort is like a precious commodity that nobody wants, it’s like seeing a golden necklace embedded with fine pearls thrown into some dumpster in the slums and left there to be picked up by the trash people when they came every week and live out its necklace-life rotting in some shit-ass landfill.
Anyhow, I had none of these problems. I was so used to it that it really did not take too much effort at all, the amount comparable to maybe standing up and walking yourself to the door. The door in question in this particular situation that I was in was tall and white and made of wood. About eight feet tall, maybe 5 feet wide. It was a pretty average sized door, but nobody was really caring. The white paint wasn’t chipped or faded, but you somehow knew, just by looking at it, that it wasn’t new and had in fact been there for quite some time. The peep-hole was small and inconsequential to the story, even more than the dimensions of the door, as the peep-hole was not and will not be used. The door, however, will. But let us now turn our attention to the handle. It was made of iron with a sort of greenish tint, and very curvy. It was one of those handles that one has to push down on rather hard and then push forward to open the door. I did what I just described and passed through the threshold and into the outside world.
It was a little bit chilly out, with gray and cloudy skies, which always seem to both lift and drag down my spirits and the same time. It was a day where there was about a seventy percent chance that it would rain. I left it up to chance but brought a hooded sweater just in case things got wet. A bird let out a screech as it ran rather comically into a birch tree, dropping its dinner out of its beak in the process. It was odd, really, I felt sorry for the bird, the way it looked at the worm crawling away, it was probably going to go hungry. Yet, I felt glad for the worm, narrowly escaping the jaws of its predators and crawling heroically away. The worm, I thought, was Superworm. Then the bird at the worm. So much for superpowers.
I walked farther away from my house, into a trail into the woods. The woods were comprised mostly of birch trees, and the animal life was mainly ravens and spiders. The webs, they crisscrossed all over the top of the forest, in between the tops of the trees like some demonic cross word puzzle that there is no answer to except fear, the strongest emotion. Fear propels like no propellant, propelling into love, hatred, war, peace, anger, tension, betrayal, sabotage, and a number of other pleasant and unpleasant things. If money was power, then fear was richer than Rockefeller.
Continuing my walk, I fell into the sort of daydream one normally gets while one is walking through the woods. The daydreams of the epitomes of all your hopes and dreams, and idyllic version of your future life, every failure in your life rectified and gone, no worries, just happiness. This warm glow would be in your chest all the time, everywhere you went, everything you did would be just perfect and if it wasn’t you would make it that way because you were perfect and your life was perfect and everything was just so great. Don’t you wish, sometimes, maybe those daydreams would come true? Well, I guess that’s the point of daydreams, wishful thinking. What you wish your life was, what it isn’t. I sighed and decided there was nothing I could do but keep walking down the forest path.

Contemplative Poetry...

I
always wondered...

can
you
clean up
a
mess

or
just
hide
it
?



Yes, very over-intellectual.

Poems

everything

sound it out
ev-er-ey-thing
four syllables
there are four elements too
but those are obsolete
and nobody cares
not one bit
----------------------------
depend

everything
depends
on everything

it takes two to tango
if you had three people
it would be a threego
or some crap like that
----------------------------
steroids

you ever see
a hulky guy
lumbering his way
down the cracked concrete
path

on the streets
he pushes
some innocent passerby
why is he angry

four fused rings
is the chemical structure
generally speaking
of a steroid
-----------------------------
it does that to you

hate pushes
a blunt knife
at the surface of the drum

pop

too late
to save you now

Awake, But Still Screaming

I woke up, choked back a scream, a yell, some kind of exclamation of surprise, the kind you get when you just woke up from a dream that made you feel like everybody was trying to kill you and that they were damn good at it. Which was what I had just done, woken up from a bad dream, a bad, bad dream. I’d always been paranoid, but this was just too much, you know, when you can feel the pointy silver tips of the knives poking but not penetrating your skin, just waiting for the chance, for you to let down your guard, so that they can pounce, you know, just jump on you and stab and stab ‘til you’re just a mess, a bloody mess sprawled out on the floor waiting for some poor janitor to come around a say to himself, ay, dío, que lástima. Then he calls the cops and the ambulance, but, you know, they’re out to get you, too, so all you can do is lie there in pain and wait for the pigs to come and finish the job with semi-automatics or something like that. Anyways, that’s the kind of dream I woke up from, it was pretty scary, usually I’m just being chased by aliens. But these were humanoid and most definitely earthlings and most definitely out to get me. Get me good, you know, all out to get me and get me good.

It was pitch black like the souls of the people, 2 o’clock in the morning. I had work tomorrow so I decided that I’d better go to bed, you know, I didn’t want to come to work all tired, rubbing my eyes, my tie out of place, and my shirt not fully tucked in, with people giving me those looks out of the side of their eyes, criticizing me with their peripheral vision and in the whispered conversations they had while I was walking past. I lumbered downstairs like a five hundred pound drunk guy with balance issues in his cerebellum, I almost tripped somewhere around three times. I was going downstairs to get something I knew would help me go back to sleep, you know how it is, warm milk and cookies soothe you like nothing else. I walked into the kitchen and flicked on the light, and he was standing there. I shook my head, he can’t be back, he’s dead. I looked down at the floor and then nervously and slowly bent my neck back to a normal position, he wasn’t there anymore. Memories following me around like a sick puppy begging for food. I gave my milk and cookies to the puppy and went to bed.

The Plateau

The black sky closed oppressively in on the landscape, drowning the last cries of happiness in nature. I woke up on a plateau in Tibet. Some snow mountains and that kinda shit. A memoir of some obscure Hungarian hung on one of the branches of the tree on which I leaned my head so I could look up and examine the sea of blackness that hung damningly over my head. Clunk - the book fell off of the tree and hit me on my knee. I cursed loudly and then threw it at some nearby rock. I found two rocks to use as flints and hit them together to light a fire by holding it over a pile of dried brush that I had probably collected very recently. Once the fire was started and I was reasonably warm, I got to carving. Carved stuff, all over everywhere. Like a jack rabbit with a pocket knife, a line here, a line there, some squiggly crap over here 'Twas like a work of art that nobody would ever see because nobody came up here on this godforsaken plateau.

I was resting and sitting around when I felt something wet on my bare feet. Something started to smell bad, real bad. I looked up and there was something that looked like a winged alpaca. It seemed to think my dirty exposed big toe was a salt lick or something: it was licking it so fast and diligently that I thought that my foot would disintegrate from all of the saliva piled up on it.

BOOM. It exploded and my big toe was safe. Headline: RANDOM EXPLOSION SAVES BIG TOE FROM CERTAIN DISINTEGRATION BY THE HAND OF THE TONGUE OF A WINGED ALPACA.

I tripped and broke my knee. Damned Hungarian memoirs.
----------------------------------------------
EPILOGUE:

The rain came down hard and fast and washed away everything, and art was over. Into the puddles on the ground it went, despite all efforts for something to happen otherwise, to contradict the cruel reality that was the certain destruction and fading of art from the rock walls on the plateau in Tibet.