My Caboodle of Irritable Hap-Happens #1

1.) whenever a professor say that some person or figure is smarter, better, or at level we can never obtain. Whether the professor says something such as, “Chaucer was a genius, he was so much more brilliant than any of can even hope to be.” or “Shakespeare was such an unbelievable mind that anything we write is just crap when you compare it to Shakespeare.” These sort of statements that try to place me into a group of people that will never obtain greatness equal to that of my predecessors, is such utter crap. It is this sort of close minded thinking that has been stunting the potential of people, since the dawn of modern thought. I hold firmly to the belief that by allowing our imaginations to change and exist, and with constant efforts towards any goal there is NOTHING that I, or we as humans, cannot obtain with enough hard work and creativity. Fuck the conception that Chaucer, Shakespeare, Einstein, Hawkings, Whitman, Paul, or even (save from blasphemy) Jesus, Buddha, or Da Vinci; are for whatever the reasoning, “better than I am, or that I am not capable of their level of greatness.” I know for fact, certain, I am as capable as I believe I am. Anyone who tells me different will be proven wrong, I testify. Gracious that annoys me!

For Common Prophet

“please note: this is in the exact form in which I wrote from 1:14AM till 5:24AM on 1/25/08. it is full of errors, typos, and grammar flaws, mostly because I wrote non-stop, only looking up at my computer screen every half hour or so. It may be a difficult read, but I assure you after I am finished chewing it myself I will release the second and final draft on http://adhereinspiration.blogspot.com/” so without further interruption.

For Common Prophet

I tried my best to tell them, but people often choose not to listen. You see what if I were to tell you that in five days there would be a an explosion,

the nuclear at A&M would explode for what ever the reason, that there nothing I could do to stop it. If for some reason, God himself had come to me and said and said to me through sort of vision, a dream vision, in a way that I knew beyond any doubt, ant certainty, that no matter what deal of faith I possessed, this was going to happen, I knew with absolute, I knew with a resolve so sure, that faith couldn’t break it, this was truth,
If I was say to you, in five days, everyone here in college station will die,
that the explosion would kill everyone and although I couldn’t , I was the only one who could do anything to save the people of this city, or better, what if I said to you that I came. That I stood in rudder square at the msc, for hours, crying out desperately for anyone to hear me, for someone to believe me, I knew this was truth and it was duty to the people of this town to, to give them the chance for salvation.,

What if I said, I didn’t have the proper paperwork, what if I said, I was escorted from the premises. And better yet

Let’s say I left after all my efforts to combats this disaster, I left to secure my own safety, and for goodness sake let’s pretend a few of the people that heard my speech believed me, let’s just say. And a small handful of people were spared from the enormous destruction that would ensue.

And what would be the result, if in 5 days the explosion happened.

Better still, what if I had gone to the police, I had calm said the officer across the desk, I’m here because the nuclear reactor will explode in 5 days, and we have to save these people, what do you imagine that he would believe. The peace and tranquility outside his window, on his car ride home, on his Wednesday morning game of golf, would he believe that, or the grumbles, rumbles, and pleas of a stranger now across the desk from him. And I would plea, I would return everyday, and on the off chance that someone could help me, that that they in fact went to the generator, and their were no problems reported with the reactor, that this was all nonsense, or better still

What if continued my sermons on the square, after being thrown from every restaurant, and location I had grown accustom to, after I had sullied my reputation for my beliefs and my love for people. And as a reward, I was given a cozy white room, in a cozy white jacket. What would do?

What would you do?

What would you do when come 5 days past, the explosion happens.

The explosion happens and the only survivors, the few that had fled because they feared the wrath of death, the all powerful hand about to fall, and bring its glory to the people. What would you do when the bomb exploded?

When the detectives, fbi, police, friends of family, friends of friends, came and asked you why. Why did this happen. Who is responsible, who could have done such an awful thing.

And you didn’t know, one thing you did know was that there was this man in the MSC, tin the rudder plaza, in the restaurant, in the police station, in the nuthouse, the prison, the hometown, in the place where you heard it. Where a man said, “in five days college station will explode and you will all die unless you heeded my words. God has told me that this will happen, I beg of you with all my aching heart, to listen, I beseech you to listen to my pleas. A great destruction is upon us all, I want to save you, please run, go away, flee from here with great haste, leave the wind in your dust, but PLEASE be gone. I beg of you. Please get far away from here, each day the moment’s draw nearer and nearer, please! Please! Please…please…please….(as he whimpers in the midst of people as they walk by some looking briefly some choosing to look away, but ever, ignoring this man’s voice, his attempts to save people, when none chooses to listen.)

What would you do when they asked you if there was anyone who knew anything about this tragedy of sorts, that has left a crater in the hearts of Aggies everywhere.

You would tell them of the man, and of where he was, and of what he said. And although you told them, they would not listen. What would become of the man ho had gone beyond the limits of normal human compassion, undressing and shredding the ties, places, and repute he had spent his life to attain, then to have them all die in an instance. Leaving the metronome of thought panging in his head.” was there something else I could have done, some more to save them, maybe just one more flyer and people would have adhered to my calls for redemption in the wake of such unbelievable loss, was there something? How much more would have been enough? How much is endless when it comes to grace, when it comes to mercy, when it comes to life how much is enough? How much is enough?”

The man would think.

And he would think until the police finally came to him. In one alternate ending, he lies, and the people who survive point him out, “that’s him!” “that’s the guy” and that would be enough, enough for them to have a lying murderer to deliver the media, to the families who have so greatly mourned, to the whole ever so present in the aggie spirit.

And if the aggie code had survived, and this man upheld truth, if he “did not lie and did not tolerate those who did” then what. What would become of the raving man who had filled the air for the past five days? He would he would be the finally verdict, the only shred of evidence left. And even as the man yelled blatantly into the face of persecutors and lawmen, as he stabbed into his chest with his own finger to saying “I was the one who tried save those people when no one else would, I tried, I tried, I tried!” raising voice each time he repeated, and pointed with his finger into his chest, repeating the in the same fashion of passion. This same occurrence would be played from every TV station in the world, often times it be chopped into

a 10 second bit, mostly with the audio striped bare, leaving the images of a raving madman pointing with no words at himself, wildly

as the tape depicts. On few occasions when the question of his motives after the account were brought to the surface, about the survivors of the blast that bled maroon. The same tape would replay with a man yelling with all his voice audible to a man three times his size, that he “tried!..tried!…tried!…” cutting to the newscaster saying , but he didn’t succeed, saying that people everywhere are moving for an explanation, others are pushing goy the death penalty, that this man is a monster, the devil himself, the merchant of death, the Al-Qaeda informative, the terrorist that made it through airport security, the first born US citizen born a terrorist. That’s often what the truth gets you.

And better for better, if I had stayed until the last second, praying, grabbing, screaming with all the life possible for such a small body as my own, to flee, for God is God, he is the maker of life, and the maker of destruction, he is the maker of your life, as well as your afterlife, heed me as a royal ambassador of holiness, leave here the time is comi….” Would be the last words audible before the eruption spread, and no one said a thing, and no one listened to it anyways.

The few remaining survivors would tell of the madman, the gallivanting lunatic would set up the bomb, and when the moment was prime, he exploded, in a blaze that only suicide bombers can

make bright in the pitfall of so mush evil. And the man at whom was believed to be at ground zero, at the third tower, the sister tower of the twin towers. Him. He would argue, if he could.

Better still and more,

Say that one that fifth day at the station the chief had had enough and was sure this man was a menace to him and the community, that his ranting raving rampart had come to an end… “lock him in a cell, send him to the loony bin, I don’t want to hear that dribble anymore, take him away” he would say in a tone that represent the distaste for even having to deal with such a creature. And off I went, to a dark cell of iron and crooks, a haven for the bad, the dastardly, the rude and uncaring, the evil as it may have seemed, or into the white walls of a mental prison, and asylum for the people who do not fit the image of perfection, who must be the descendants of another god, a different Adam, another line that was formed from the dealings with the devil, and the workings of a just and righteous god, this is where they would send me, when there was no one else to tell, I would be sent to a place where the few who did listen didn’t know how to know how to help, and the many who didn’t listen continued, as was the custom that had become accustom to.

“Till the bang would ring like bells in spring, the black bowl brews a clue,

And men would say that on that day, the maroon in tune had flew.”

They would look to man in the cell on the verge of madness, with the guilt of the thousands and ten

thousands bearing upon his tattered soul, a soul he tried to use for good, and say “you.” With a finger extended, jabbing into his chest, with eyes glaring, furious, madness,, revenge, “you did this you monster, you demon, you murdering beast… you can’t even be called human after what you’ve done~” with that a hawked barrage of spit would propel and land on my white coat, binding my arms from hugging the man who needed so much love after so much loss, or as my hands extended from the bars towards him in attempt to offer some measure of comfort to the victim of a blameless crime, with guilt and shame written across his face, and arms stretching between the bars, always out of reach of the school teacher in the shirt with the red apple on it, or the woman with tears streaming down her face into her mouth, just as they were the closest they would ever be, they were farther than a sea red with the blood of victims. Like a symbol that a serf had exceeded his boundaries, the pepper spray would batter, and the taser would cripple my sight, and expunge the strength from my bone, my muscles and my soul, for ever attempting to break those gates.

What would you do?

What would you do, you’re 83 now, and I am 86, I’m still in a white room but I have
a little more room to stretch my legs, and the doctors have move me from a deranged and dangerous red, to a cautious alerts level of brownish yellow crazy but still kicking.

What would you do? Much of your life has flown by, as a reporter says that you are one of the only two survivors of that fateful day 65 years ago, and that the killer is the other still surviving away in a cuckoo’s nest in central Texas.

What would you do? What would you do to answer the one unsolved mystery that has since haunted, countless time throughout your life, causing to harder and harder to love someone because they could be gone just like that, in the blink of an eye, who do you believe, how much do you take the word of a crazy babbling guy in the street? How much of her life would have different if she hadn’t listened and chosen to visit her aunt that weekend? He could have been the only survivor of his own destruction, the legacy to his madness. How much more would this evil seeded cretin continue to thrive, live, survive in his ivory padded tower? How much punishment is enough for a for an

avatar of sin manifested? How much is enough for what he did? How much is enough?!

What did you hear when you looked upon the man still vivid from that day three scores hence, from the news programs, from the videos, the pictures, the mental picture that had mutated with the image of horns, fire, and aggie rings dangling and clanging at the base of his crimson trident with every methodic laugh, and hiss at the please he took from destroying the love and life you once had?

You heard lies, deceit, and the vernacular equivalent to the devil’s vocal cords, reflecting the matching images cascading into your mind.

And yet what did you see?

What did you see when you looked at the visage of evil embodied? As he pushed his walker with the tennis balls quaintly fashioned onto the bottom legs, almost in a wandering nature about the large concrete room, trying his best to navigate to his chair on the other side of the expansion, while limping ever so slowly along the neat yellow tape on the floor so he could remember where he was going, and how to get to the chair adjacent to the window which faced south east.

“when the sun rose I would shake until it rose past the rim of the window’s frame, and would whimper when it set behind him. I would whimper as he watch the shadow in front of him crawl, and creep along the wall, growing larger, wider, taller, eventually staring at him with blaming eyes, and a voice similar to that of a siren or banshee, screams. Screams, mostly of lives not lived, people after, of the future that never had a chance to blossom, to take bloom in the springtimes of their youths. The shadow would grow, and eventually become one with the darkness that swept the walls like shadows imprinted in Hiroshima. I could not forget. I tried, and this is my penance for my failure, please forgive me Lord, I need your mercy, your grace, is it ever enough?”

You read this, in a journal from just 3 months before your arrival. The nurse said after a year or two of talking, he just stopped his rambling, and said he wanted a piece of paper, or so she had been told by the nurse before her, who heard it from the nurse before her, who had heard it from the nurse before her, who had heard it from the nurse before her, who had heard it from the nurse before her, who had heard it from the nurse before her, who had heard it from the nurse before her, who had heard it from the nurse before her, who had heard it from the nurse before her, who had heard it from the nurse before her, who had heard it from the nurse before her, who had heard it from the nurse before her, who had been there, and given him the sheet of paper and pen mounted to the table with a chain, shackled there, adjacent to the window facing southeast. That’s where he started, and that’s here wrote this journal.

The nurses said he would speak, that his functions to form speech had decayed because he never spoke, but they said his voice was still there though. No matter the dosage of the needle that pricked him every night after the sun had fallen below where he once basked in it, no matter how potent the medication, he would moan, like a sad wind, he would at rare occasions tremor and yell and shake until attendants fastened him securely, and increased his dosage a little more than before.

What did you expect to hear when you sat down in front of the man you held responsible for all the flawed memories of your life, and your first emotional death at the tender age of 18? What did you expect? You continued to speak to me for hours, and hours, and days, recounting your life, your trials, the fallings of life, the shame I should feel for the things I had done. But one day in no particular location of the sun, you asked a good question, one that hadn’t been asked but to anyone but myself.

With that my eyes that were once glazed, as if peering at something beyond what anyone else could see, focused. They met your eyes, like two bombs had finally made contact on the war waging inside, and I had to step back away from the chaos lest I be engulfed in it again. My neck shifted from the field of sight where everyone wears patches over their knees to the place where people wear their glasses. For the first time in sixty odd years, I spoke. I spoke because you noticed that I had something important to say, something brought to me by the wisdom of silence, the beauty that is found in the sounds of life when they make such a triumphant melody when you hear the truth in someone’s voice. You perked as I did, and you listened when I said, “I tried my best to tell them, but people often choose not to listen. I promised myself, I would wait until someone was ready to listen, then I would tell them. I figured if they wanted to hear the truth, they would listen but I think thus vow of silence might help you hear it this time. I’m sorry, I tried, and thank you for listening all those years ago. I needed to know I did enough to save someone, thank you so much.” With that tears streamed down his face, and outside the window an apple blossom came into bloom. He imagined since it hung so low to the ground that it in reach, for someone able to move about, for someone not stagnant, and confined. I said, “The apple blossoms have just come into bloom for the first time this year. Could you help me? I wish that I could smell what life smells of, could you trim the busted bulb of that blossom the one low to the ground, could you do that for me please?…”
You’ve just looked into the enemy’s soul and found him to be a POW longing for the comforts of family, the home-sickness of which you can cure.

A moment later you returned with the blossom in hand, the pink petals looked like the sky with a pure white sun rising in the east with lengths arraying to the cusps of the petals.

With a whiff and a tug, I plucked the apple’s petal from the bottom where the white was all that covered its surface. I placed it on the table and whispered, “This is clean, it has not seen what we have had to witness, take it with you. It is getting late and I feel for the first time I will be able to sleep sound. Thank you for listening and bringing me what I’ve been waiting to have.” You walked off, clutching your pristine piece of nature, of life, of birth, of beauty untainted. To see apple blossoms can do wonders for your life, and every nip of hawthorn can do wonders for my rest, finally a peaceful night, and no more shadows.

The Three Voices – Final: The Lucifer Test

This is a test to determine your future. Are you willing to play?

Oh great a dead-end, now where am I? Where is everybody else?
Who are you? I need to know? What is our connection? Why do I feel like I know you. Give me you memories, now.
What is this?!
What is it? What is this horrible human emotion? His sadness is overwhelming. Why am I even affected? Why should I even care about him or his parents? What is his connection?
Get out of my head! Leave my memories alone!
Silence! You hesitate; you alone possess the spirit of darkness. To realize its full power, mercy cannot exist. Remove this obstacle at once.
That’s not what you really want.
Ignore him. Listen to the darkness in your heart, destroy this human, and fulfill your destiny. I will cover this world in darkness.
I cannot let that happen. You missed me O’ Master of Darkness.
Is that all you’ve got? Fight me! You must do much more than that to get rid of me. Anything else you’d like to try?
I’ve got to do something…I know it’s not suppose to end like this. I just can’t let you win, I just can’t.
It’s time to say goodbye, Any final thoughts?
It hurts so much sometimes, I try to be nice—
No—
It’s not their fault—
That’s enough!—
I’m sorry!
What is this hideous source of light!
A new power source, I feel them, my spirit has come together.
I underestimated you, but I don’t understand. You’re miserable, what do you have to fight for?
I have some unfinished business to attend to, maybe you’re so far gone you’ve given up on those you care about, but I’ve been given a second chance, and I’m gonna take it.
Let the darkness embrace you, that is where you belong. Cover this pathetic world in darkness and it shall become your kingdom forever!
Yes! My kingdom awaits.
I have to find out, somewhere deep inside that dark heart is just a person in pain, like me. How are we connected? Who is this? It wasn’t a vision, how could that boy look just like me. What?!
The time has come to remove the seal.
I lost him, where could he have gone?
Who are you?
I could ask you the same question.
Why did you follow me?
Because I felt I had to.
Your presence in painful to me.
Is that why you hide from me in the shadows?
It is not
Then why?
Destiny.
Destiny?
Darkness hides from the light, until it is ready to destroy it, you warrior of light are my destiny. Darkness will prevail. For light shall be extinguished.
Looking for me?
Prefect. You are persistent, but you have interfered for the last time. Beautiful.
You are mine.
Darkness will never defeat me.
Warrior of light, you are a blight upon my realm the time has come for me to show you true fear, did you really believe I would allow you to defeat the son of darkness, my own creation.
His creation?
It is time for you to remember the day you came into this world, allow me to assist you.
AHHHH!
Wait don’t leave me! Why won’t anyone pay attention to me?
You have my attention, the darkness in your heart drew me straight to you. Your loneliness, and sadness, your angry soul, it’s like honey to me. Sweet pain, and darkness.
Darkness?
I like you.
Who are you?!
I am the one who will set you free and release the darkness in you heart. And it will give you great power, and you will become one, this Spirit of Darkness. It hurts because you still remember your pathetic human heart. Let it go, let its darkness fill your soul, this time your heart shall not trouble you.
AH!
Yes now you see you are a creature of darkness, my creature. With this spirit, you will become a true warrior of darkness. You will not have to fear the light, not ever again.
What are you?
It is time to rid this world with true darkness, destroy the light.
What now?
My enemy! Destroy light! Destroy! Light! Destroy! Destroy! Ahhh!
Ahhh
Ahhh
You must remember your life, your life in the human world
I was human
What on earth is he? He looks just like me.
Soon everything will become clear
Who are you! Who are you to me!
How can this be, Brother? I must take some time to think this over.
They hurt you, feel the darkness in your heart. That darkness is your greatest weapon, Use it! Use it to destroy the light. Light is pain, destroy the light. Destroy your brother of light and your heart will be healed… That was too easy.
Please wait, I have something to ask you! You were human once weren’t you?
You suffer, only darkness will free you. The light is your enemy.
Why do fight for the side of evil?
Haven’t you figured it out, I am your twin brother.
I don’t have a brother.
Soon it will all become clear, the mystery will be resolved.
It’s time to end this.
I want to hear more about you!
It’s too late.
Unwilling slave of darkness be purified!
Ugh…
Did it work?

The Three Voices – Second: Sad Truth & Biggest Fear

Again, you’d think I’d be used to it by now, but it seems I always end up alone.

Who’s there?!
Who were you looking for little boy? Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s not, but I know I’m looking for you. I know who you are. Yes, yes as I said I know who you are. I’m even somewhat impressed. You do quite well for an amateur. Did you miss me?
Yeah, yeah, whatever, so you’re the star, what-do-you want?
I want what everyone wants from you. Just hand me your spirit, and I won’t have to hurt you.
Yeah right.
Alright your spirit if you please.
And if I don’t please?
You’re wasting your time. My training has given me abilities you cannot even comprehend. I know things on a deeper level than you can ever imagine. As I know you. I know your heart. I know what you do before you even know you will do it. Everytime. Have I made my point? I will have your spirit; it’s only a matter of time. Ah, I see it is to be the hard way with you. I cannot say I am surprised. You give yourself away lone wolf, you’re afraid to have friends. That is your weakness. You refuse help even when you need it. You think that makes you strong.
Huh?
It makes you weak! A true warrior never closes the door on loyal allies. Don’t forget I know your heart, Even when you have friends you won’t allow yourself to be happy. Always in your mind you prepare for the time they will leave. That is your greatest weakness.
Weakness? I call it realistic. Everybody leaves. That’s a fact of life. I just want to be prepared for it. I don’t need friends or family.
Family? Of course! How did I miss the signs, your mother.
Grrrrrr.
You deny yourself friends and family, how sad. You’ve forced yourself to be lonely.
Grrrrr.
It doesn’t matter what form you take, your heart is an open book, and I’ll read your every move.
Huh?
How very sad, you’ve forced yourself to be lonely.

The Three Voices – First: Attempting Friendship

Where am I? This is weird. Wait a minute where is everyone? Guys! GUYS! Come on you guys! This isn’t funny anymore. Help me! Where could they be? I’m tired of this. Come on spirit! Now is good! Somebody help me! somebody!
Are you looking for somebody? Are you lost maybe I can help you?
Who are you?
my friends call me… are you okay?
I am now.
I’m glad to hear that, you are a very nice.
Thanks for saving me… so, where are we anyway?
I’m not sure…I was overcome by darkness and awoke here
That’s pretty much what happened to me too.
What’s wrong?
I have no idea what happened to my friends.
I’m so sorry to hear that, perhaps we can find out together
You mean it?
(Nods in agreement)
Thanks for the lift
Don’t thank me, that’s what friends are for. Friends are always there to help you through the rough spots. I’m just glad I was here when you needed my help.
I’m really lucky aren’t I?
Well, luck has nothing to do with it my friend.
If it’s alright with you, since we’re friends, I think I’ll keep feeling lucky.
Are you alright? You look a bit tired.
I’m fine, really I am. It’s just so hot here, and I’m getting awfully thirsty.
Why don’t you stay here and rest while I get some water.
That’d be great but I-
-Please, what kind of friend would I be if I knew you needed something and wouldn’t get it for you.
Well, when you put it that way.
Don’t worry it won’t be long.
————————————
I’m back, here drink this.
Thanks a lot.
What’s the matter?
Nothing, I was just thinking about my friend, he was always picking on me, saying mean things and stuff.
Your friend didn’t see what a special person you are.
Guess not.
It sounds like he had no thought for your feelings or anyone else’s, that’s unforgivable.
Yep that sound like him, but he wasn’t completely wrong either.
I disagree; such people do not deserve to live.
I wouldn’t go that far.
I was just kidding.
Where are we going anyway?
Right up this way, but we are running out of time.
Don’t you think it’s a little hot here?
I think it’s nice and cozy. You’re just tired.
UH…
What’s wrong with you?
It’s getting hotter and hotter every minute, there is no way we are going to find my friends up there.
I’m your friend, and I need to go up there.
But…I…..
I saved you life and helped you when you needed it, and this is what I get in return? Tell me is this how you choose to repay my kindness and friendship? It’s my turn now.
It’s not right, something is not right.
What are you talking about?
Keeping score… If we think about others, I mean when we actually think about what other people need. Then it doesn’t matter that sometimes they need more than they can give back to us, for a while.
You’re being ridiculous, I gave you what you wanted, so you will give me what I want, Now!
No way..
Alright let’s cut to the chase, Hand me your spirit.
It was my spirit you were after all along, wasn’t it?
Well of course it was, you don’t honestly believe anyone would want to be your friend otherwise.
I’m not listening to you anymore, you’re a liar!
You are out of your element. I’m sure it’s very hot down there. Maybe we gave up on our friendship a little too quickly, why don’t you give me your spirit and I’ll help you out?
Nu-uh
We’ll let bygones be bygones; I forgive you for being a selfish friend. Come now, don’t be stubborn. We both know I’m your only friend. I’ll even accept you spirit as an apology for failing me.
Failing you! You were never my friend! I don’t owe you anything, and I’m not sorry!

Don’t be a fool. You don’t really mean that, hand over your spirit, and I’ll let you arrrr — Is that how you treat your friends? You’re a horrible person. Nobody likes you. You’ll never have any real friends!
My friend what right.
Has the heat baked your brain?!
I think I finally understand what he was trying to tell me. I really never appreciated all the things my parents gave me, he knew friendship isn’t about what you get. Friendship is about giving to the ones you love. He knew there were people just like you who would take advantage of me. Well, never again.
You’re just kidding yourself, you and I are exactly the same.
I could never be like you. I have many friends. They need me, we need to help each other, but I don’t need their help to take care of you. You are selfish and a bully, this instance will harden my courage like ice, and purify you.

Olive Branches

When the branches
of Red autumn Leaves,
settled with Blue-Jays,
and nestled with White Eggs,
become too bound in scarlet ribbon to burden harvest,
and ornamented the limbs of dead laborers,
a canopy becomes a graveyard above common pickers.

As scavengers on-look at grandeur and reach,
its size is eclipsing and round,
rings of wisdom, weathered with age,
betray the yew of its strength,
and pungent the stench of the fallen unseen,
that have swelled, rippen, and rot.

The workers are taken by foliage,
a forested coat tail of green.
For peasants to touch, taste, and tell,
but never, just-dis-erst’ fail to fill the soul,
and sustenance for begot the smell.

A pruning is needed,
to slice through the law,
with logic and learn we don,
if the taint persists from blood of our native roots,
or the land that we grounded,
or the fathers be-four who were lost,
to beckon the use of cindery force,
we draw a death card holocaust.

And with ashes of old,
a new seed will sew,
a tentative sapling will stir,
through struggle and season,
and a just sign of reason,
the roots of our future will grow.

mowing over loneliness

mowing over like a butcher’s knife entering the slaughter house. recently it seems to me like all of my friends are slowly disappearing, their is one that has resiliently stood by me. but i’m realizing as each day passes that my biggest fear, the thing that terrifies me the most, is being alone. i’m really putting myself out here right now. but I feel like i’m running out of options. where I once was confident in my every stride, and thought my every course was the one correct for my path, now I’m not so sure. what is the mystical characteristic that makes people hover around you? this may be my upsets coming to surface, but I think somehow i’m cursed, torn from the livelihood of other people’s lives, full of emotions, and friendships, close ties to one another. Those are the things I fear I will never have.
One by one by one, i’m losing my few friends that i have to the world, travels, distance, and lives to be led. I’m standing stagnant in a library, soaking up the smell of old books and wasted memories. Here in the prime of my life, college, central station, crossroad of whenever, is suppose to be the highlight of my life but i hardly feel the euphoria i suspected to feel at the climax of my life. I guess it’s all down hill from here. to france: one down. to china: one down. to dfw: three large. to waiting: a posseful.
everyday i’m becoming more content with being alone, more content with hiding in my room, more content burrowing into pages, more content walling myself in, more content walling others out. somehow i look around and feel i’m the first to blame, then i tally my karma scorecard, turns out i’m due for a little bit of happiness. turns out the number of people i’ve pulled from the furnace greatly outweighs my meager two or three. i’m talking dozens of baker’s dozens i’ve pulled from the flames, dust them off, and put them back on their feet. Always trying to remain strong so that others could be weak, remain alert so others could relax, arrive prepared for others who were not. i’m trying to do the best i can everyday, but no one want someone like that. it may look easy, and some make try to take advantage of me, truth is i try really hard, with all my might, but no one wants to see a knight in shining armor because it makes them feel back about themselves, instead rather more they would have you weak, lazy, and full of faults. it’s easier that way. i chose the path less taken, and given my morose disposition, it has made all the difference. ~

A Quest Between sexeS

In my quest to uncover a way to understand the complex ‘woman’ I have been more often than not come to the realization, that men are gimped anatomically, but gifted with a creative spark that is void in women। While women on the other hand are gifted in the physical manner of reproducing, incubation, birth, bringing life into existence, but couriering life is vastly different than creation. It is the creative spark that ignites like a catalyst that men pass unto women, and once affected by this spark, they are able to use it. While men have the ability to see abstract ideas manifest in their mind which were previously unheard of.

Here are just a few examples of what I’m talking about, I typed into Google
“Best female inventors” and “Best male inventors”

I’ve looked through hundreds and hundreds of inventors and these are the best of each gender I’ve found. What I’ve discovered is as I suspected, men have been the most influential inventors hands down, in comparison to women artisans I believe the chart speaks for itself, by the fact that every item in the men’s column is something we all know, and most likely understand the amount of effect they have had on our modern lives and history. Here are a few of my results in no particular order.

Female Inventors
Invention—————————————— Name
Imp. Plasma Study Method —————————- Dr. Betsy Johnson
Non-reflective glass ————————————-Katherine Blodgett
Nystatin —————————————————Rachel F. Brown
Leukemia-RX 6-mercaptopurine ———————-Gertrude B. Elion
Molecular sieves—————————————– Edith Flanigen
Maritime Signal Flares———————————- Martha J. Coston
Liquid Paper ———————————————-Bette N. Graham
Cattle Chute System ————————————Temple Grandin
Computerized telephone switching system——— Erna S. Hoover
MARK1 —————————————————-Grace Hopper
Kevlar —————————————————–Stephanie L. Kwolek
Co-Discovered Stem Cells ——————————Ann Tsukamoto
I-V House —————————————Lisa Vallino & Betty Rozier
Scotchgard stain repellent treatments————— Patsy Sherman
System to Detect Imperfections———————–Ellen Ochoa————————————————————————————————–

Male Inventors
Name ——————————————–Invention
Thomas Edison——————————– Light Bulb

Johannes Gutenberg————————– Modern printing press
Isaac Newton ———————————- Calculus
Alexander Bell ——————————– Telephone
Alessandro Volta —————————– Battery
Nikola Tesla——————————–—- Radio
Vint Cerf——————————–——– Internet
Maurice R. Hilleman ————————- Vaccines for measles, mumps, hepatitis A, B,chickenpox, meningitis, pneumonia, Haemophilus influ. bacteria.
Chester Carlson ——————————- xerography
John Stringfellow —————————– airplane
Wilhelm C. Röntgen ————————– X-ray machine
Kees A.S. Immink—————————– Compact Disc
Alfred Nobel———————————– dynamite
Samuel Morey ——————————– internal combustion engine
Enrico Fermi ———————————-nuclear reactor

dream (5/29/07)

In a desolate town, I was standing rooftop on a sun baked corner store, looking at the sunset hanging only inches from touching the horizon. The ruins were scraped-up tricycles, rusted cars, stone mounds resembling piles more than homes, and a panoramic view void of trees. The sun appeared an orange with an apple-sized bite missing from the top, or so it seemed as an orb, compressing the essence of midnight itself, slowly glided down in the sky. Then the star resembled a melon slice, then a crescent moon, and then a wink, and the sun was gone, forever.

black book 1-35~

1. eItHEr you arE thereI’m herE.listENIng.waTchinG.I’m HERE.
2. OR you ARE noT.I ExIst.I will get wHat T
3. _ caMe For.I wILL hAVE
4. my FeaSt.yoU seE That?
5. yOu WIll TASTE
6. GOod.I CAn TastE IT.LeARN tO ~UncE
7. Prono~that NaMEyou DoN’t EXiSt!.226687226819
8. THErE Is no WAy You CoULd DO ~HAt!You CAN~
9. T~~’t BE reaL!YoU SHoULD HaVe DONe A BetTer Job.~sE
10. ReCOLLECtioN oF ViSItS. nICe WorK.IN RespoN~

11. OtHErs HAVE dEStRoyeD My LiFe
12. sometimes I come back and there is dirt on my shoe. Did I go somewhere?.~7603~~No MoRE.StoP tHAt.
13. As FAst As yOu cAN.
14. RuNM^AEvEn Now As
15. I wRite i FEEl I Am NOt CHOOSing EVERy
16. word MySelF.MI’M ~cK
17. BA~YeS, REA~DEAthiNG Is A hoBBiE,I aM gOoD!
18. ~LLyFiND ME…Why can’tI DoN’t KnoW whAt~I will not putona~
19. ~yoU See me!~Show~i did,BUt i tHINK I KnOW Ho~ TO~
20. ~w ~FiGuRE iT OUT.TErroRis F~

21. I Am rEAl.~rIEnD.It’s me.oNE of THrEE TraVele es.
22. CoNFUSEd as AnyONe….SOoN LEAVE
23. IT’s yOU!.SoRRy You DidN’T FiND ANytHing.
24. DON’T RE~MAKE IT SO!
25. ~SISTAm I not Good enoughIs this Not
26. EnoughNot am IaNyoNE
27. 76031he1p mi!…I THouGHT simply lovinG Some . was enouGH….
28. I WiLL nOt LeT you tak~ WhaT I~
29. HaVE!NoThing is DoNEHElP tHem!
30. 2-7784017~7~6~~~~~no moRE LEAKING|

31. WHY do you not see Me.AsK NOW.
32. if you Are reALLY thE~ haVE A me~ you….
33. ~Re THeNI ssAge For miss THis.LEt me ~Ng Ask you?
34. FiND Me!Push me I’m alrEAdy StAndi~ At ThE EdGE……..PUSh mE!
35. I WANt To SpEAk CAn I SPEak I wanT to sPeaK

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(Pages 36-200 not listed here)

Matches – Prelude

(I’ve been throwing around this idea for a while, this is the prelude to the first book which takes place in Seattle. Entitled Matches: The Book of Mae I’ll be adding excerpts from it, so be sure to keep an eye out.)

Prelude

She was always elegant on stage, with the twist of a prop, a gesture, a wink, and scribble, Mabel could be a whole new person. This particular day was the talent show in Malcolm High School. Everyone knew Mabel as the average pretty girl, curved proportional; voice audibly refreshing, and her height danceably comfortable. She was not a queen from Venus, an officer of any organizations, or an active member in anything, because that was Mabel. Unfettered, she knew it, but no one else did. Mabel was often overlooked for lighter, bouncier, perkier teen age whores. Envy, jealousy these come close to her feelings, but her perception of desks and chairs, how wigs we not for baldness, how covering more intrigued more, and making the game appear easy was quite difficult.
These ideas floating over her eyes, making them so heavy was enough to make her blink. Before opening them, she knew that the audience would love her, the crowd would cheer. Yes, tonight the people would cheer, they would sing her song. As the curtain rose, she was not overlooked, and not for the angelic sonoric song not yet sung, or for recounting untold passion she had never experienced. As the curtain rose higher, the mystery captivated the audience, for the shape and complexity of her statuesque figure was loud enough. Her melancholy voice they had all heard before, and expected the same today. At least until they saw the performer on the stage could not be the Mabel as directed in the ballot. Who was she, thought the territorial teenage lasses. Who was she, said the rustle of jeans now growing tighter and letter jackets leaning forward.
She gripped her necklace between her finger and thumb, and again with the other hand. And so she opened her eyes, and lived the life of another, and felt a sensation she could only equate to the roaming of hands over her body, touching her, stimulating her skin, making her glow.
She enjoyed the song, it was melodious and heart felt. She loved this. She enjoyed people watching her glowing, like a distant star people point to when they are lonely. She loved this feeling. She enjoyed the sweat, her heart beating deep and more resounding than her lungs could voice. She loved the life she had become.
That night she dated and tagged the name Mabel on her list. Recounting the images, in-bedded-numbers, colors, style, makeup, the unique necklace, and most of all, she wrote down in a series of pictograms who she was. Only she understood the pictograms, and only Mabel knew where the legend to the symbols was hidden.
Mabel had always been able to make straight A’s in classes, because she could put names to faces to numbers to pages, before many could read the back of the book. She would record all the men in a separate book. This particular book cover read The Secret Garden, but it was hobby of Mabel’s to rebind books, even if the written binding was not true, it was bound. She would flip through the book to remember who she was and who knew her. Then, sandwich the portfolio between, Childhood Antecedents, and 37 to One the two large unentertaining titles would usually distract prying eyes.
Two months later Mabel graduated from Malcolm High School. She was not going to miss these people, they never knew her. They never actually knew her mannerisms, unconscious tell-tales. She said her goodbyes and made anyone who had ever tried to catch her eye, scribble their cell, and expected towns on a pink velvet notepad, just incase she was ever in the area, in need of a place to spend the night. At least that’s what she told them, with a succubus tone, an open ended kiss. Her destination was narrowing as she glanced at the naive penmanship and put one intended red line through each location she would never visit. When others asked where she was going, she told them money was tight, which it was not, and would leave a silence as she leaned forward slightly and played with the hem of her shirt twiddling in her finger tips, only showing an inch or two of her belly, but enough to dissuade the conversation from progressing any further.
And within the break of a weekend after diplomas had been exchanged for pennies, and out-of-style hats had been tossed aside, she was packed, and driving the scenic roads. All the way to Seattle, Washington, talking in coffee shops, and making phone calls, trying to find a new bookshelf to house herself on. She occasionally offered her time, improving her collection, and watching a disappointed bloat sleep on the couch, as I fade away in the comfort of a nice and soft and homely bed. A new town, a new place to explore, and new beginnings to create, she thought.

i hope this works

i hereby knight myself Sir Remo The 2nd

 

just a chat

i was talking to Mark the other day, and i told him the 1st time i will ever have a drink to drink, rather than nourish with be on my 21st. he came over to my house after tens of hundreds of years of walking, and i gave him water, shelter, and an open ear. he was proud to see my will power and faith. he told me about the “truth” i asked mark, “what’s that?” he asked me then if i was saved, and i said, “sure.” confident in my eternity, but still lending a hand to his conversation. he told that to be saved is knowing the truth. while many people wouldn’t dare question such a saintly chap as my pal mark, i had my own truth. he told me there was only one way. “and it is?” i retorted. in death and salvation. with a gleeful expression i hurried to the cupboard and fetched a paring knife. sat calmly back at the table we were conversing at. “is it really worth it?” i persuaded to his favor in saying.  “forever and ever-” as the words began like a chorus, they halted like a car hitting gates as mark jumped across the table spilling his half full cup, and snatched the paring knife that was now protruding from my wrist. with an unable expression of confusion he blurted, “are you crazy?!” “for the truth” i spat gleefully still, appearing unaffected by the blood draining from my wrist. i had clasped my hands together in thinking myself content, for the next road. the blood dripped and left dried bloodlets on my ankles. mark was speechless. all he could do was pant and worry, but that didn’t help his problem solving skills. it wasn’t bad, or as bad as i thought. after a few hours of my wrist being wrapped in linen strips, the blood clotted, and i felt a bit cold but striving. mark finally found the means to calm down. “is the truth dangerous?” i said almost with the innocence of a new born, and the wit of Euripides. he saw i was calm, and realized then that i wasn’t crazy but conscious. “what do you want with me?” mark replied with a ting of impatience hanging like fog. “have you done this to destroy me?” the humane side was present for the first time with mark, as his eyes watered and his teeth clenched. “I know what your doing! I know your type!” his embarrassment and tears, turned to glass, and he began to yell. “Be Quiet!” for the first time I raised my voice, stood from my chair in such a manner that mark was caught surprised by the quicksand that the couch became.  staring down at him with a judgment. staring down at him as a friend. i slowly marched to the cabinet, flung it open, and tearing the locks from the hinges. pulled out a well polished half empty bottle of bourbon, and two muddy glasses. with mark’s eye following me to the table again. he remained quiet, as i poured two cups on my side of the table. breathing deep through my lungs then replacing the bottle in a matter of ten steps. mark’s posture slumped until my eye met his in a dreary wake. mark straightened up and sat forward as i did. then i slid him one of the glasses. as if appalled and innocent as a child, “what is this?” with the gulp or sip or swallow that burned me in to out, i said, “what you make of it.”

RIP TIM

Elegy:

About 6 months ago when I was off traveling the countryside, in search of foreign love, and found none. I came back, and then left again for the same foreign love that was calling in the wind. Through my many journeys, I was neglectful. To whom; not mom, not dad, not people I knew, and definitely not my grand-buried love. When the tales were written in stone, I came back to my cozy existence. When I went to start my computer, whose name happens to be Tim, he wouldn’t start. I knew I had been rough on him with 3 am gaming sessions, and all night papers. Tim was a hard worker though, and he never gave me reason to doubt him. I never had him pass out on me, or sputter when the room got a little to hot. Tim was old, about as old as a heart of a manned beast can be. When the inner turmoil rolled across the placid plains willowing my mind, the same fate had befallen Tim. As if to say that this foreign Love who greeted me with emotes, and precariously laugh-out-louds more than any sane person should, was a symbol and in some way circuited to me. When my heart sunk and failed, and I almost gave up hope, my low was almost too much for me, but his mothering planks sensed my disturbance, and quickly averted his energy elsewhere. When I came home, Tim’s heart had truly stopped spinning, and the blue and red coated veins branching from the heart were a strain to remove. With his death came remorse, and with remorse came duty, and with duty came, the parting of a strong friend, and with this parting, I let Tim go. I’m not sure where his heart has landed in the capacitors of heaven, or if the heat sink was too much and he descended.

Today 6 months past I raise a toast to you, Tim. You were proud, and worked hard, never straying away from what your purpose was. You did the best you could everyday, and died being remembered as strong. Many men including myself would cry for the motivation of the same dream.

The Toast!
To Tim!
To A Power Supply!
A Proud Comrade!
And Friend!

Tim!
May All The Busses Lead Home!
And To Your Heart We Wave!

Farewell!

 

but I call it a reflection

the strangest thing is to be called beautiful, genuine, a gem, compassionate. these are the types of words i word dice and trifle over before i would ever give them to a person. but they were given to me. and as much as the last waltz meant, it has come and gone, and i was left standing at the wall, partnerless. i thought i had found someone at the dancehall that was silly enough to pick up a book with pride, and we met, and talked. and didn’t talk, and talked. and didn’t talk. and didn’t talk, and didn’t talk. i can still remember her favorite subject, her favorite candy, her favorite superhero, her favorite band, and. and her favorite excuse. hope to me came in many forms, sometimes a street lamp, sometimes a book, sometimes a cold blanket, sometimes a warm voice, sometimes chopped up and placed here and there to form the image i desired. hope is something i think i’ll always keep in little pieces, and one day if they arrange themselves to be magnificent, then i’ll never touch it again, i’ll leave it be just the way it was suppose to be. mosaic. what a quaint way to see the gardener’s harvest.

 

Currently reading :
My life with Cleopatra, (Bantam Books)
By Walter Wanger
Release date: 1963

 

how to ride a bus

it’s a becoming ride, that rises before the sun and brings new clouds to the sky. my rides are especially nice. when i roam campus daily i’m bombarded with a colored hand of jacks and queens. but when i ride the bus the never the less i’m always dealt a flush. white faces, collared shirts, makeup mask, and matching ipods. i’m always fond of people who listen, not to me. when i can gaze at someone the entire life of the bus and they never see, i get off the bus. it’s strange. as for the people who stare out the glassing landscape they either fully understand the loneliness of their cramped spaces, or hope that a friendly salutations will mash and press it’s way to them. music is amazingly retarded in its form on campus. these earplugs open your ears to a prescribed world and flurried imagination, while cutting off others from the same experience. when you wonder why the solemn tunes you hum bring you down, just try bringing a friendly smile to bring happiness to their pounding drums.

we here, are a group of folks who say howdy, walk the good path, conserve ourselves, and are always polite. i am one who follows these rule of consideration, and ignore the inequality they present.

when i was riding the bus, when a lady enters the bus i stand out of respect, and if they need a seat i humbly offer it to them. i know women are not weaker than men, and i think of it as a way to get people to listen. but when reason presents rhyme, i sit. when the book i need to study in our twenty lap track is too large to fit in my pocket. but the men on my buses are eager to please. yeah. eager. i believe it would be better said, eager with intent. i know for i often have the same motives that drive my manners.

but when you raise yourself to a higher standpoint for no reason, then i prove my standpoint, or sit point.

so a young girl was one of the last on the bus today, a simple day. i had much to study, and was making the best of my time by studying in my seat. when the unoccupied gentlemen around began to get up for all the other women on the bus, and she was left to stand, i became breezefully remorseful. till she said with a cocksure noting, “uh can I sit there?!” i calmly glanced up at her and said no. no disrespect she was a lass of untamed modesty, but i had much preparations ahead. and no sooner than the words from my lip, did the stifled gasps, and retentive stares begin. the young lass once again inquired “so like you’re gonna me stand… like the whole way?” calmly with a grin of in superiority i replied yep. her arms we empty and her backpack was well filled, but i needed to sit so i did. my response generated more response than i thought response’s should give. so she looked at me with a grin of stupid, dumbfounded, and laziness. my remorse had left, but i knew the women beside me would never understand, and the testosterone packed sardines lining our moving tin would not think me rude. so i studied with the backlash of sighs, foot tapping, and moans from the impatient lass. is was nice to feel comfortable. when i got off the bus people stampeded like frightened cattle, and then i trailed out the doors glancing back for stragglers, but found none. all the drives i have ever taken here at this agriculture hub have been flawless, maybe it’s because the first one to break the herd is the first one eaten.

complex it’s how i would describe her

she never quite got why i liked her, but faintly i always will. in life, she has pushed me out from our merry carriage too many times to count, but every time i would follow her to the next time. desperate and loneliness were the shoes i wore every time i trailed the dust strewn path she laid. but to find her after a long arduous sojourn in remorse, it always seemed fulfilling. i knew deep deep down, in some buried, never to be seen, rumble would be something so grand i would fear others would try to take it for themselves. and it would sadly descend back into the hole, it would shake my earth, but the foundation would eventually settle. many months after she took the train to chicago, and then to new york, i brought a spade to carefully dwell in feelings stunted more than the weeds where i buried it. with dirt and filth, i always felt pure after i looked into the hole. i couldn’t touch it, but it was well worth it to see it at least once. i dug and buried many times after till, the ground began to harden, and dry. it was then i burned it. trial by fire i suppose, but life is a strange to those things you love. it had survive barely a morsel over the past few years. let us see if flames that hatred made will swell for a moment or two, and envelop what her and i once had. and it did. i couldn’t ever get the feeling back, but i could remember a missing page that i never read, curled with mystery, and made me began to let ashes fly in the wind. i think many years from now, when cleopatra is common topic, and horatio is no longer unobtainable. i will see her again, but then i will push her from the carriage, and she how she walks in my shoes.

a simple name

They strut in and out of sight.

They come for others, to talk, and to be seen.

They think to be seen as thinkers,

with coffee in hand and bookmark to flaunt.

But, cold print cannot bite when used as a shield,

while unspoken stares pierce any guard and wound unkindly.

To them musk on any occurrence is ever familiar.

Their eloquent attire acts to form encouragement to the mute.

The time spent scribe before them pushes away curious observers,

but intrigues the feeble willed to question further.

So the keep say, Its time.

The bookmark prances ten steps,

the robustful drink cools,

and people graze out to the street.

They always come for them, and they never see them.

To believe they all have a name.

some girl at the coffee shop

she’s in love
her feet twiddle as thumbs do,
and her hand caress his hair.
so he talks and she listens,
stares intently in his heart with her eyes.
despite his clothes and grungy disposition,
she laughs when he plays with wistful stories.
he stares to the empty blank walls,
when she speaks importance to him.
her appearance is stead fast at worst.
her scent will stain his memories when she leaves,

and yet with no word spoken
i accept a lonely glance that grabs my heart

then turns away.

for she is an angel who has fallen,
for a mortal,
may have a dream,
on earth, for a time,
in a coffee shop.

down with the US

all i keep seeing is ruthless killing, utter destruction, and chaos. putting the lives of thousands in the hands of our high school and college drop outs. every game of chess must have pawns, or so the saying goes. i just watched a video on a guys web page. a guy i went to school with. he was not a bad guy but not a bright guy. there were videos of destroying walls, cities, cars, mirrors, homes, and lives. for sport. for fun. for honor, for courage, for liberty, bullshit! the iran people can either rise from the ashes of corruption or they deserve to die.

for instance. if a crazed governor in texas decided to raise an army of say 50,000 people. and the US government said,” not our problem” the texans of the home state would rise in arms against people who gas them, shoot them, and kill them. tis the way the world is. rebellions is a common find in history. when fear is blanketed. people rise. good over comes evil. take our troops out of the middle east. let the people who we accidentally shoot. fend for themselves. tis a cruel world. britain did. america did it. france did it. russia did it. mexico even did it. for it is your own life. rise up and live it.

God Bless! america.

you are a fine country. but leave this masochistic iran child alone. you cannot keep him from cutting and beating himself. this a problem he must do alone. you are simply there for a model, an example. something to strive for. a peace that is reachable. do not kill the boy and hope to have another.