Unrequited

Seething rage floats to the top of my consciousness. Boiling right beneath the surface, an emotional soup scalds the inside of my soul. No one to calm the waters of my heart. I am a tempest. A centennial storm, devastating the scene surrounding me. My tears turn to ash upon my face, scarring my worn and gnarled countenance. I sneer at the happy people. I scoff at any idea of true love. Romance retrieves healthy reserves of bile from my throat. I hear false words over deafening winds and roar all the louder in less than elegant protest.

Another time, the sound breaks under the noise of empty words—friendly and well-intended, but empty nonetheless. I love fearlessly, and this is my reward. I care carelessly, and am met with this callous conundrum. Hatred creeping in, where love should dwell.

I am unrequited, and there is no worse state in the union. Unrequited’s capital is self-pity; the urban sprawl encompasses the lazy, loathsome, and utterly suburban town of vanity. Its main export is famine. The deficit climbs higher in even an ecstatic economy, because Unrequited is always borrowing. Unrequited lives far outside its means. It pushes its meager resources beyond limitations, hoping to attract an outstretched hand by virtue of effort. Yet the soft and coveted hands never come.

The hands that come are barbed and vicious, teasing us while we are caught in the storms of our souls. They lend not love, but labor. They collect pain in return. They grip tightly for but a moment, long enough to toss us to and fro. They exist solely to stir the vice. To validate the vindictive. They come as shining beacons of false hope. Then the varnish wears out and the wicked curved claws dig in, tearing sensitive flesh, drawing more ash-tears that crumble and die away as soon as they are shed.

Together we rise, consistently, resiliently, and beyond all reasonable capacity.

Together we rise to the truth above the lies, past the cretins who would criticize.

They rage and break against us.

We rise to the occasion.

Bin Laden has expired

With the tenth anniversary of 9/11 around the corner, I've been getting a little nostalgic, and realized I need to address something kind of important.

Bin Laden's death is a great victory and a reason for celebration. So why don't I feel like celebrating? Have I become so jaded that I take no pleasure in the justice for the 2000+ victims of this coward's atrocities? I don't think my mind can even process the magnitude of this event. In point of fact, what I'm most emotionally charged over is that this gave Obama a boost in popularity that he sorely needed.

But that's not really what I want to talk about. I'm not so much a hater of Obama, as I am of politicians in general. He's just the most current in a long line of power mad snake-people. what I really want to address is my own reaction to the righteous killing of a mass murderer. And to be honest, I'm not sure what to think. I don't know if it's because I'm tired, disillusioned, or as previously mentioned: jaded, but for some reason I just can't recognize this as important news.

Yes, Bin Laden is dead. He deserved to die. I'm glad that he has vacated this mortal coil. However, I am not the least bit encouraged by his demise. The fact that he's gone doesn't change the other less convenient facts. "What facts?" you might ask. Well, how about that we are in two different half-hearted armed conflicts with countries halfway across the world which we are scaling down and preparing to retreat from? Actually, things only seem to be getting worse as our military loses money. Our military loses money because our country is losing money, so naturally our leadership is proposing to take more money from us. They claim this will help them pay down our debt while maintaining defensive strength, but the long and short of it is that we all get poorer, and the military has even less to fight with because of our poverty.

That's another thing. This bastard's death has me thinking more about the other problems we face rather than the tasty morsel of victory and vengeance we've been handed as a people. That's messed up. I should be reveling, dancing on his God-damned grave, and smearing bacon grease all over his corpse (you know, because Muslims can't touch pigs?) Except he doesn't have a grave... or a corpse. Instead of properly enjoying an exciting afterglow of a highly anticipated terrorist lynching , I'm caught up in the frenzy surrounding our national debt and am barely even paying attention to the level of popular patriotism among my comrades. If I had to guess, I'd say it's pretty low. It simply is not as cool to be an American now as it was when I was a kid. When I was a kid G.I. Joe was cool because nobody made a homoerotic movie about it, where Marlon Wayans got to dress up as a power ranger. Stupid.

If only they'd release the damn video. I'm still pissed about that. If I at least got to see the demise of my enemy I'd feel some sense of absolution. That's the way it worked with Saddam anyway. When his neck snapped, I heard the collective sigh of an oppressed people. As it is now, I'm really just taking it on good faith that Osama's head-shot happened at all. How could I really know that he died? This could all be a big setup to get people worked up and patriotic so they don't pay too much attention to all the mounting domestic problems. Granted, this isn't all that likely, but the idea still circles the back of my thought process.

I find myself needing to get fired up over something. Being an American used to mean endless possibility, opportunity, and prosperity. Now it seems to mean endless disenchantment and meaningless drudgery. The politicians don't listen, the debt never goes down, and the people are more concerned about the NFL lockout than the so-called Arab spring, which could potentially liberate or indoctrinate and enslave nearly a billion human beings. I hear "America" and I try to envision WWII vets. That makes me feel better. Anything that comes to mind about America from the last 10-15 years only serves to make my blood boil. We as a nation are backsliding on patriotism. Or maybe it's just me. Either way, I needed a win, I got one, but I find I can't enjoy it. I blame the government.

Howard and Susan

Howard began his Friday night by thumbing through his comic book collection. He was looking for inspiration. The epic adventures of his youth always found their way back to the forefront of his mind in times of crisis. And Howard was in a crisis. He was facing down an almost assured meltdown at work. A presentation he was months away from being ready for: being presented Monday, 3 p.m.

His time would probably have been better spent in preparation, but the weight of the task in front of him proved so crushing as to pummel him back to a prepubescent state. A child looking to his heroes for answers. How to face down the evil corporate supervillians? Batman made it seem so simple. He never quit. Nor had he ever suffered a moment’s indecision. A very enviable claim.

Howard collected himself. He put down the stack of well used collectibles, and picked up his smart phone. He called Susan.

Susan was already hard at work. Her end of the presentation was coming along just as she had planned—meticulously. She was at point 33 of her 40 point synopsis on the importance of undeveloped real estate in their mutual client’s portfolio. Howard knew all this. Howard knew Susan.

He knew Susan’s long brown hair, sleepy auburn eyes, her high cheek bones, the overly noticeable dimples, pale skin, impressive bust, even the slightly pronounced bump on the back of her neck where her spine subtly shifted from neck to back. He also knew her personality. The career gal mentality, feminist leanings, independent nature, irrepressible optimism, the undying inability to accept blame for anything. Oh yes, Howard knew Susan.

“How’s it hanging Suzie Q?” Such a stupid nickname, they both hated it. “Just blazing through another few key sections for Shwermer.” Shwermer was the client. They both hated him. “Shwermer’s a putz. Let’s get dinner.” Howard enjoyed being to the point. “I’ve already eaten.” Susan lied. “Alright, a movie then.” “I’ve got a lot of work to do.” “No you don’t. You’re on point 35 of your 40 point presentation, and you’ve already got the next five points written down in that big beautiful brain of yours, so let’s get drunk and do some regrettably dumb shit tonight.” She laughed despite herself.

“Howard… you know we can’t. Not after last time.” Howard frowned. “Last time was a fluke Miss Q. You know how Howie gets on too much tequila.” “I wish I could forget.” An edge of pain had entered her tone. “Well, you must’ve forgotten last time, because it was you who insisted on the shots.” He playfully parried her malice. That was his way, to avoid responsibility for his actions by any means necessary. “Well, even if I do forget, my sister will never let me hear the end of it.” Howard rolled his eyes. “Your sister seemed like she was having fun at the time.—““--And maybe she was, but that doesn’t make the whole thing right. You… you were… so demeaning.”

Howard hated this word. He thought of it as a catchphrase for the helpless. “Then you shouldn’t have joined in. You felt awkward? Unsafe? Embarrassed? Unhinged from your boring little box of reality? Well, sue me Suzie. We were just having fun, and if you didn’t like what I was doing, you could have stopped at any time. But you didn’t. You sat there and took it like a man. For which we were all very proud of you, knowing about your insatiable penis envy. Which, oh by the way, probably stems from your unmitigated compulsion to prove that you have the most massive cock in the room.” Malice had now crept into Howard’s tone too.

“Fuck you Howard.” A sharp click indicated to Howard that it might be time to flip the comics back open.

Left-handed Lover

She isn’t quite right, is she? Not right minded, right on time, right-wing, or right brain. But that’s her right.

She’s got her tight end on the left, she’s loose, and she’s the only one in TLC who doesn’t chase waterfalls anymore.

The world isn’t designed for her. She has trouble with most pairs of scissors, she always has to sit on the outside of the table, and she has one too many feet of a certain variety.

She passes the pipe counterclockwise. Whether or not that’s wise, she isn’t wise to. But she doesn’t look at the world like you do.

She lives in a blue state in a confused state, slating her fate by spinning pinwheels on the other side--where Bob usually stands.

She’s mostly alone, hardly ever at home, difficult to reach on the phone, and less comfortable with a bagel than a scone.

She has the right of way, but never takes it. She’s hard to get to come, but she never fakes it. She can’t dance, but she still shakes it.

Her handwriting is terrible. She’s hard to pitch to, and if you ask her about Britain, she’ll tell you that they drive on the right side of the road.

She cries at the drop of a hat, sleeps more hours than she’s awake, and sometimes she hears noises she can’t explain.

She’s been rejected because of the color of her hair, drowned out because she’s soft spoken, and marginalized because she lives within the margins.

She fits perfectly in my arms, rolls right off the tongue, and smells like she’s been dipped in honeysuckle.

Her body is a temple decorated with orchids, stars, and Japanese letters. She tried to be vegan, but it didn’t take. Lefties are inconstant as the wind, but she’ll always come through… for my sake.

I’ve got a left-handed lover. She causes as much trouble as she’s worth. She fell westward from the stars and landed on a beachy patch of earth.

I met her by reading a message in a bottle of a south-paw sort. It stated rather simply: “Take a boat out to sea and keep looking port.”

A Conversation Between two Daft Individuals.

----

Are you daft? Thinking for yourself, not working for someone else, not doing ne’er with the other ne’er-do-wells?

Are you daft? Refusing to believe your ship has sunk, daring to sail though you may fail, not giving in to the urge to wail like another maudlin drunk?

Are you daft? Remembering when you should forget? Leaving though you shouldn’t have left? Paying for someone else’s debts? Sleeping though the night is young? Kissing but forgetting to use your tongue?

----

The Daft man retorts.

Am I daft? Punk. Is that what you thunk? Right to left, in and then spunk? Play a little trance, do a little dance, get her to take a chance, take off her pants, skip the romance? Nevermind the rants, the fact that she takes Vivance, that diminutive voice that talks about choice, good or bad, should you call your dad? How far, how fast, how long, how sad, how shitty, how rad, how bout, right now, you go, get sane, sing in the rain, sleep while you’re in pain, open the gates In the name of God!

Get right. Tonight, eat light, don’t fight, sit tight, invite the idea of insight into your life. Maybe then you’ll be smiling.

----

Are you daft? Fooling yourself, clearing the shelf, sharing the wealth, having your health? Aren’t there any pills you should be taking? Wait, are you… dreaming while waking? Stop that. Or are you just faking? There’s some mistakes you should be making. Boots that should be shaking. People you should be hating. Others you should keep waiting. Your appetites need sating. There’s porn over here, why aren’t you masturbating?

Are you daft? I’m hating you now. Wondering how this could have happened? You should want these things. You should crush these dreams. Break your seams. Stop crossing streams, and taking steams. Start hating with me.

You must be daft. You won’t listen to sense. And you aren’t sitting on the fence. You don’t seem the least bit tense. You don’t seem to be playing any defense… I’m confused.

I’m convinced you’re daft. What the hell are you thinking? Smirking, smoking, and drinking. Yet I’ve never seen you inebriated. You seem liberated, elevated, frustratingly NOT inundated. You’re pissing me off. I speak my wisdom and you just scoff. Except it’s not really a scoff. More of a sad sad laugh. What gives you the right to pity? You’re the one that looks shitty! Do I look like I need sympathy?

Are you daft?! Why the hell are you smiling?! Those nails need filing! That hair needs styling! Don’t roll your eyes at me; there are numbers I could be dialing! Instead I’m trying to talk your foreign tongue! I might as well be donating a lung. At least then I’d be doing some good with my air. This really isn’t all that fair. You seem so happy.

Are you daft? What’s your deal?

----

The Daft man replies again.

My deal? I’ve been a Long time coming and nowhere going.

Been too long down a sad sad road. I got outta there on wings of gold. Unbound from the chains I made to hold myself down. I felt restless and lonely and oh so motivated to do absolutely nothing. I needed the brightness back in my life. How to get the brightness? I needed that gleam on my routine to make things seem a little less tolerable, and a lot more enjoyable. Where did all the good times go? What did all the bad people do? Is everything reparable? I was tired. So tired. So drained of all emotion, left feeling slightly somber. As if depression was the only option left after my brain devoured all of the serotonin.

Hm. Perhaps that’s exactly what’s happened.

So I,

Rise every morning to the sound of thunderous brass knocking ceaselessly against the winds of my anticipation.

I ride the waves of love to victory and celebration.

Nothing is over, it's just begun.

Witness my stride, the race I will run.

I keep my faith, sprint along straight, leave behind hate, focus on the traits of life that keep me happy—

Not silent. Not angry or violent.

I will step on the head of the serpent, jerking fiercely,

Stomping out hatred and becoming who I’m meant to be.

Am I daft? I guess we’ll see.

Until then, and probably ever after, I won’t stop smiling.

Floating in a Sea of Echoes

I aim to be a moderator.
Not a hater or an instigator, but perhaps an agitator.
Because deep inside there does reside an aged gadfly.
He exists to remind to be kind. To rewind. Not to be blind
to the past but to remember what will and won't last. So I think fast.
I talk trash, I cut class, I walk past, pass gas, and never cease to ask
questions.

If I do it right I might teach some lessons to the stepsons
or daughters of a lost and broken generation. One that seems constantly on vacation.
An unpaid holiday, away from their dreams. The ways and means, and it all just seems,
a constant quest to get laid, trade maids, sin in the shade, and fade.
Nothing of substance.

So I float and I wait, looking for the boat to navigate
my way out of this mess, trying to de-stress and rescue the damsel in distress
wearing that dress that shows just the right amount of her breasts. That is, unless
I should be looking for something else. Well, Maybe I should be listening. Maybe these waves have something to say. Something I could restate in a new way, shedding light on today
shining brighter than a blue ray on a new age 1080 p broadcasting TV.
But again that's what I see, that's obviously not what I need. It's just a news feed,
a deed to my desires, designed to lead me to the fires
of my own avarice just to piss my life away and waste my best and brightest days
chasing after the wind.
So what then?
Listen.

There's a whole sea of echoes. People who've been through the throes and winds and woes
of life in all its strife to move beyond common sight. They found that hounded holy light.
Wisdom in abundance, coming not from redundant pundits who tout their numb wits like it's some holy writ. It makes me like to have a fit. Because they just don't give a shit. No.
They'd rather you not know anything of value. They'd rather wow you,
blind you with pinstripes rather than show you how to
Think for yourself.

Pass by these venomous vipers of "why try?"get to the reality of the ethereal high.
Wisdom: the practical application of knowledge. Sharpen your mind's dull edge.
File down to a point and anoint the mind with the kind of words that wind through the halls
of eternity.

Read King Lear and drink a beer with Shakespeare. Or is that too queer?
Explore the rear ends of fiction through the unique lens of Tom Robbins.
It takes more than a little brass and a college class to understand Dumas you dumb-ass.
Why don't you run all through this with C.S. Lewis and then intuit where the truth is?
Is your plate too full to shovel down a Russian novel? Raskolnikov, lives in such an awful hovel, Dostoevsky, it's hard for an American to sympathize.

And yet we do try, we thrive, survive, supervise, subsidize, and occasionally we realize.
With our epiphany comes great felicity from seeing through the duplicity-- Then electricity.
Action and movement, traction and improvement.
The satisfaction of knowing how the groove went.
These things have happened before, and there's more in store. Be patient and always listen.
In this sea of echoes.

Short story excerpt

This is a fight scene that I'm experimenting with for a short story I intend to write. If you've got any notes on how to make it better, or what you might find unclear, I'd welcome the constructive criticism.

It’s an ugly day. Cloudy like February is cloudy. The chill is bitter, the wind biting, and my wind breaker is doing a shitty job. There’s a little too much moisture in the air. It’s signaling the sudden onset of rain in the next hour or two. I’ll look forward to having wet feet pretty soon. I need to go buy some damn boots for days like this. As it is, my sneakers make for great running shoes and allow for a great deal of flexible movement, but they really don’t hold up in a storm.

These are the thoughts I’m musing upon when I round a corner and suddenly find myself in a scene right out of a movie. The sounds of a slight struggle and some muffled threats tip me off to the exact nature of the situation as I survey five men in similar punkish dress surrounding a tepid looking ingenue. I wonder if I’m dreaming for a moment. This is a make or break situation. My altruism/herd instinct/whatever you call it, immediately snaps my body into a state of apprehension. They are enclosed on three sides by the gray, rusty, old buildings so common in industrial areas like this one.

They don’t see me. I could leave right now. I could call for help. I could do a million things that would all be smarter than what I am about to do. I speak.

“A pissy mood can really ruin a sunny day. I’m in a very pissy mood. However, I must be lucky because not only is the Sun not shining, but there also happens to be a group of individuals who look fairly ripe for me to take out my frustrations upon.” I say this aloud to inspire fear, and to sound cool like I’m in a comic book. The truth is I’m scared. The five guys in front of me all have blunt objects and I’m unarmed. But they have a girl with a ripped blouse held captive. It would be pretty lame of me not to do anything.

“Oh? A hero enters the mix huh?”

Damn. He’s got me pegged already, and he doesn’t sound the least bit scared.

“Something like that.” I say this smiling, summoning up a confidence I don’t feel. But I see hope in her eyes. I won’t let her down. I’ll die first.

“Let the girl go, and there won’t be any trouble. Otherwise I’ll be calling for five ambulances shortly.” My gall is surprising, even to me. Who am I pretending to be anyway? That was the most cliché line ever. My fists are clenched, my hair is raised, and my heart is beating so fast that I’m sure they can hear it.

The speaker of the group smiles, and motions to two of his friends. “Kill this asshole.”

Laughter. Mind numbing hateful laughter fills my ears. They really shouldn’t laugh at me. I may not be able to beat them all, but I can definitely let them know they’ve been in a fight. The two advance. One is short and stocky, built like a wrestler with a huge back and a low center of gravity. He’s got a scar over his right eye, a sure sign of an experienced fighter. The other is taller, almost lanky, but he’s got shoulders that belong on a shock putter. My thoughts go clear; my body begins moving on its own.

“Have it your way.” A mad smile covers my face. As terrified as I am, I’m enjoying this. Hell, I’m loving it. I almost laugh as I sprint forward. “It’s important to land the first shot fellas.” I whisper this quietly as I launch myself into the air with my lead foot, twisting a graceful 180 to plant my back heel into the shorty’s forehead. He falls backwards in blinding pain. Still grinning psychotically, I rush the lanky bastard. He swings his club as I slip forward and left, dodging it by millimeters. I return with a clenched left hand directly into his kidney. I listen to the satisfying gush of air leaving his lungs and watch him crumble. I look up, and fire from my eyes burns a permanent memory into the brains of the remaining thugs. My head tilts upward. I stare at the sky for a moment, and still a trademark lunatic smirk spreads ever wider over my face. I stand with my arms limp and I lazily turn my gaze down at them.

“Well, that was stupid. Now there are only three of you. It would have been better if you’d all rushed me in a group. Then you might have had a chance.” The three have dropped their jaws in shock. They regain their composure and forget the girl. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.

“Chance, mother fuckers!” I slide in between them firing rapid jabs at their faces. I connect twice and then get caught. Flash. My whole world goes dark. I open my eyes again to find myself reeling backwards. No time for pain. There’s blood gushing from my nose. This is what I get for being cocky I suppose.

No time for pain! They’re still advancing. I fall backwards and roll for space. I’m on my feet again and in a fighting stance in less than a second. My eyes are wild, the smile is gone, replaced with a sneer of primal hatred and aggression. The three are all around me swinging bats. I’m moving with grace I never knew I had, dancing on light feet a knife’s edge away from the blurred words: Louisville slugger.

“Too slow.” I grab the nearest bat and twist my body into the outstretched joint of an elbow. The bat comes free. I continue with my spin and connect the bat with a kneecap. I’m not sure who’s. There’s a face in front of me, and a bat headed downward in a sledge-hammer motion. I hold the slugger aloft with both hands to block the oncoming onslaught and proceed to kick forward with all of my might. My bat snaps against his hammer strike, while my kick connects agreeably with his solar plexus. The second assailant is flung to the ground. That’s two down with body shots today, I’m on a roll.

My bat has become an edged weapon, I toss the blunt piece aside and wield the remaining wood like a blade. My final opponent is already swinging. I drop to one knee to narrowly dodge again. I stab fiercely into the bastard’s thigh. He squeals and my smile returns. I grab him by the throat and begin striking him rapidly in the eyes with my right hand. I release my grip after a long moment and he folds noisily to the ground. I turn to face the man who broke my bat. He is slowly getting back up. He stares at me again, and his eyes widen. He begins to look around for support, but finds himself alone.

“Run along, little puppy.” I quietly hiss. He politely obeys. The girl is nowhere to be seen.

“Well isn’t that peachy? My goal accomplished, but my reward all vanished. Why couldn’t they have tied her up? Then I’d be getting my tense-gratitude blow job right about now.” I laugh aloud at my own wit, and then I fall to my knees, clenching my bleeding face. The swelling’s already started and my pulse is pounding against my temples, compounding the already excruciating headache. I don’t know why, but I just can’t stop laughing. This was the most fun I’ll have all week.