Hubris

as these lips tease twitches
feigning smiles like avalanches
i remember your subtle blanches
at our first hormoned conversation
you informed me kisses with no tongue are bland
and i, nodding with understanding,
took your hand in a french manner
and made connections

Intellectual Elitism

I studied his words and was resigned to credit him the better writer. I found the task of committing to pen and paper for long hours a weary one, made especially unbearable if the pen was summoned to scribble theoretical dribble in pursuit of academic significance. (Despite this, I could persuade myself to scribe in a "professional" manner deemed appropriate by people of a societally-considered "higher" intelligence.) Having no desire to prove to others what I myself already knew I opted for retreat to my mind's core workings, leaving the flat mechanical functions of conception better left to those devoid of imagination (offense intended).
It was then that I chose to pen these private thoughts, which I hold no great reserve in telling you I considered them a genius on an equal level to those held in great esteem by critics sympathetic to the dead and dry authors found in the American Canon.
It truly is a shame that their words to not decay in a form consistent with their bodies, as I fear their once dull works have lost any semblance of the luster they once contained and now only serve to chain writers to a style of traditionalism with their authoritative existence.

A Nod To...(Guess who)

The door creaked open, having as much character as the house and people within. A woman stood smiling behind it.
"Hello, ma'am. I was wondering-" I started, but she, smiling, politely interrupted, as if sensing my purpose.
"I'll go get him." She called his name faintly as she turned and walked away. Turning back, seeing me standing in the doorway she laughed quietly. "Won't you please come in?"
"Thank you ma'am," I replied, "but I don't want to intrude."
She turned away again, faintly amused, and as she passed her husband in the hall she leaned in, pecked him lightly on the cheek, and looked to have whispered something in his her. He grinned like a noon-sun in spring and stepped lightly towards the door.
His grey eyes shone youth and kindness from behind his black-rimmed glasses. "What can I do for you, son?"
I had a veritable assortment of speeches planned, ranging from sobbing to insulting. I folded them, balled them, and tossed them. A past-love's letters scorned. He solemnly watched my face flex muscles into patterns of worry, anxiety, nervousness. Until finally my jaw flexed a mouth into existence.
"Sir," I began, "I have no doubt that you have had a vast amount of people like myself come up to your door and boldly introduce themselves into your life." I paused. "People like myself, but none of them me."
He stood there like an oak tree. Immobile, permanent, and seemingly impassive.
"What's your name, son?" he said cautiously.
"Sir, I am like yourself." I replied, gaining confidence.
"Oh?" he smiled. "Is that so. Then I guess I should ask, 'What is my name?'"
"You aren't somebody," I curled the toes in my shoes and when they no longer felt alien I continued. "you aren't any one person."
"Who are we?" he breathed
"You, sir, are Douglas. You're Charlie. Your Guy, Tom, Laurel, Hardy. You're last name is Spaulding, and Montag. Sometimes you don't have a last name, and you go by Grandpa, Grandma, Pa. You have too many titles to count: Mister, Missus, Miss, Captain, Commander, The Lonely One, Martian." As I spoke he closed his eyes and leaned against the door frame. "You sing opera with your hands! You write symphonies!"

Speak I

the people passed the shit-stained sidewalk
and I cringed and cursed as I cross the crack-strewn concrete
but no one seemed to notice Me
noone no one no, one.
collectively seen as part of the shit
conceptually perceived as part of the crack.

the gutters spilled the rain’s secrets in spheres screaming
IAMHEREIAMHEREIAMHEREIAMHEREIAMHERE
(taptaptap taptaptap taptaptap taptaptap taptaptap)
like beats from a snare. steady
steady
steady
even as the sweat skipped down My neck
weaving around hair follicles and bitter reveries

I am the toxic dream.
I am the toxic dream.
I am the toxic dream
I am the toxic dream.

I could spin my words to thread
and hide my uninspired thoughts
-I’ve always been a fan of brunettes:
so I guess it’s shit I’ll be talking-
I could spin threads to make you weep
but I rather spin threads that make you think
better yet, I’ll spin threads that make you dream.
(not My dream. I wouldn’t do that to you)

Anti-Blase

Witness #1
Q-
A- Coincidences happen, I guess. Unfortunate coincidences too.

Q-
A- Well I’m not like, a “poet” or anything.

Q-
A- Okay, well, first off: I’m just a cashier there, and I’m still kinda freaked out by all this. And I didn’t even really get a glimpse at the lady – I’m just sittin’ there punchin’ numbers into the register when allofasudden I just hear this crash. There’s a shelf between me an the window so I – after hearing crash, just assumed the worst. I thought the store was getting bombed or something, so I just ducked behind the counter.

Q-
A- No, I don’t think there was any sort of crime committed involving that. But the chick that was buying the stuff just grabbed all her shit—Can I say that? Don’t write it down, okay, I don’t want my ma to see that I said that. Anyways, that chick just grabbed all her…stuff, and just ran out. That’s the only crime. She had like, three hundred dollars of… yeah okay good. ‘Cause my boss just thought I was full of sh…it, and I don’t wanna have to pay back what was stole, ya’ know?

Q-
A- Well that’s helpful. Look, there was just a crash: I didn’t hear a scream, I just hid behind the counter. Please don’t make me say that on the stand or something, kay?





















Witness #2
Q-
A- Yeah, I saw it. She prolly got what was coming to her.

Q-
A- Well I wouldn’t say “divine intervention” or anythin’ like that. But crap like this happens for a reason. I’m not saying God put a little extra gusto into that ball, or that He pushed that lady’s pace a little bit, but I ain’t sayin’ otherwise neither.

Q-
A- God’s motive?

Q-
A- Nah. Just a couple kids playin’ baseball in some parkin’ lot. I see it all the time. It’s not like they knew what’d happen. Hell, I saw it and I barely believe it.

Q-
A- No, that’s called faith.

Q-
A- I didn’t know her. Good lookin’ broad about four inches shorter than me.

Q-
A- Well she was good enough for me to look for a while. You know how it goes, pal.

Q-
A- Yeah.

Q-
A- Well I was right across the street. I heard some screams from the kids and then just a gasp. Real quiet-like, then the shatter…I’m sorry, but I ain’t too used to seeing the cold handsah death close around someone like that. Just gimme a minute.













Witness #3
Q-
A- Ummm, yeah...I saw what happened. There was this real friendly thing about her that reminded me of my mother, sir.

Q-
A- Oh okay sorry.

Q-
(Break for witness to compose the witness’s self)
A-Well, I go through town on my way home and I always take the same route. I go down Elm ‘til I hit Third then take a left. The older kids had a game on the school field that day so these guys were just playing in the parking lot of that Wal-Mart that they’re building.

Q-
A- Yeah, but I can’t afford a bike. I don’t mind walking.

Q-
A- I was walking and I saw her across the street. She was walking up to the intersection and –

Q-
A- Umm, it makes kind of a T shape in the road. It’s not a four-way.

Q-
A-Yes, the parking lot is…was across the street from both of us.

Q-
A- She was just walking towards me-
(Witness near hysteria. Short break is taken)

Q-
A- No I’m not thirsty. I was stopped at the crosswalk and she was just walking by that place on the corner, and she saw me looking her and she smiled at me. And I can tell when people smile just to smile so they think you think they’re nice. She actually smiled. Like she was holding it back and seeing me listening to my iPod brought it out.

Q-
A- The Jonas Brothers.

Q-
A- Yeah. All of them are good though.

Q-
A- It happened so fast. I heard a crack and I saw the ball shoot past her. Right past her face! Inches away, and she kinda jerked her head back an put her arms up like…this- ya know? Her face moved faster than anything else though. Her beautiful smile was gone so fast and her eyes got real big.

Q-
A- The baseball just went like the glass wasn’t there. A big piece of glass broke off and…I…

Q-
A- No, I have to though. For her. She seemed like a good person. The glass just fell and I saw her eyes go feary and I just closed mine and ran down the street.

Q-
A- Not past her. I couldn’t live with myself if I did. I turned right and just ran through town crying until I got home.






























Witness #2
Q-
A- They told me later it was ‘cause the glass was so old. New glass don’t break like that. I know from experience ‘cause I was part of a demolition team for a while.

Q-
A- Look jackass, that’s the not point and don’t make fucking small talk when I’m describing this shit. I’m only gonna say it once, and once is enough, ‘cause I know you’re goddamn recording this even though you never said you were.

Q-
A- Goddamn right. You weren’t there. …It’s kinda funny how the gasp was the loudest thing. And the most – I know this is gonna sound gay or whatever, but beautiful thing too. It was so weak but I still can’t get it outta my head. I looked up just in time to see her fallin’ an’ I rushed across the street. Her head was bleeding a little from it hitting the ground. But the worst was the big chunks of glass.

Q-
A- God must have really hated this poor chick or Satan must have really loved her, cause that glass messed ‘er up bad. When I got to her I could already see that she was dead. And-

Q-
A-Not literally. I mean there wasn’t shit anyone could do ‘bout it. The biggest piece had gone in right through the bottom of her neck and it hadta nicked the windpipe too, cause she was just gurgling blood. Just laying there gurgling blood. Holy shit, the blood. I could see her heart beating, ‘cause everytime it did blood would spurt out from where the glass hit her, but ‘specially her neck. People use the saying “deer in tha headlights” a lot. That was me. I was so grossed out that I couldn’t look away from her neck and mouth. I didn’t even look in her eyes.

Q-
A- No, fuck. I just stood there. I didn’t know what I was s’posedta do. Ya always hear that thing, “Don’t move someone aftur they fell. They could havah broke neck.”

Q-
A- That’s just part of it though. I couldn’t bring me ta do anything’. I wish I coulda held her hand or at least looked her in the eye and gave her some of that…emotion stuff. But instead I just stared at blood gushin’ from ‘er neck.

Q-
A- Her arms an stuff too, I guess. I didn’t see it ‘till they put her in that ambulance that came.

Q-
A- Oh yeah, long before that. She couldn’ta been there for more than a few seconds ‘fore she went.

Q-
A- I dunno. Maybe eighteen? She was out of it before that though. But I could tell she was livin’ cause of the spurts of blood that came out with the heartbeats.

The End

"This isn't how it was supposed to be."

I didn't look up.

"This isn't how it was supposed to be," he repeated.
I didn't need to look up. I had already memorized his graying features and his fraying brand of sanity. Not like there was much else to do besides watch the rockets go off and up and away into a space that I could never enter.
I was sixteen then. Of the age when governmental separation could be legally enacted.
It's funny how the most important day of your life (excluding birth and death, I don't think anyone really remembers either of those) could still remain a little fuzzy in your memory. I tried, believe me. The gods know how hard I'd tried. But once the government decides something is for the benefit of the people it's hard to convince them otherwise.
It's not like they didn't give you a warning. That's the part that is supposed to make it acceptable I think. My parents got a full year of warning, and they were luckier than most, from what I hear, or, heard, as it seems more appropriate for the current time.
But they only got the warning because it came on the day of my fifteenth birthday. Most people don't get pulled until their kids are at least eighteen. They claim this is beneficial for the parents as well as the child.
"By eighteen, one should already be settled comfortably into a career and prepared to live on one's own."
My parents were, are, more intelligent than most. That is why they were taken so early. The Suit-Men knocked on the door and my father answered. From my seat at the table I could see him turn pale as they talked but I couldn't hear what they were saying over the voices of my friends' singing. My father came back to the table just as they finished and very quietly, without looking away from his hands that sit clenched in his lap he spoke.
"You haven't made a wish yet, son?"
I shook my head, teasing hair into my eyes and down my forehead. I too stared at my knees. He sensed rather than saw and remaining motionless he spoke one more time.
"Make it a doosie, will you, boy?"
I blew out all fifteen candles. My friends cheered and my mother, cementing a smile onto her face, began to cut and serve the cake.
I slipped out of my seat and trudged quietly out of the door and into the stagnant night air. It seemed darker than I remembered it to be. I could almost close my eyes without the lights of the city shining neon orange through them. I could almost close my eyes without the tears making their way through the cracks.

A year later it was a different scene. No friends. No cake. No cheer. We were at the R-Station waiting for clearance to pass I hugged my mother and father goodbye, my dad handed me the i-Codes I would need to access the safe and bank account, then they walked up the ramp and into the cylindric titanium-kevlar weave copper-platted EZ Launch. (The term "rocket" was considered outdated and dangerous sounding.) I was brought back into the security area "for my own safety" (there was an incident a few years back involving a maladjusted child and a viberKnife) and I watched the shuttle launch behind two separate four-inch thick bulletproof glass windows with Suit-Men fingering their holsters.

Eight years later it was a much different scene. The Organization had done an excellent job of keeping the population boom of the past twenty-five years out of the media. Officially deeming it "Classified," the Organization began preparing for the inevitable. An Earth with all resources depleted. The rationing of food was masterfully done under the guise of "Ending World Hunger." The EWH movement was so powerful that it became fashionable to refuse food in order to better serve "those in need." Of course the Organization couldn't have been more delighted, and this allowed their plans to stretch another three years, effectively gathering up ALL of the remaining resources from their respective containment facilities.
It had been so long since people had seen trees or felt rain or seen a cloud that they did not miss them, and before people could begin to question "why," let alone "how," all of the remaining resources were in orbit to keep them out of the hands of the Unchosen.
We weren't so much as "Unchosen" as we were "Unworthy." We, as a collective, simply did not have the intelligence which justified taking us into space. We would effectively be a drain upon the already limited resources. Physical labor had long since been replaced by the vastly superior, union-less, pseudo-sentient mechanical workforce. We were completely unnecessary in the development of the New Human Race.

One thing was for certain: This isn't how it was supposed to be. Morally or imaginatively. 17% (technically slightly lower, but who wants to remember decimals?) of the world's population was taken- chosen as the elite, the ones needed to recreate Earth.

He whimpered softly.
"Old man."
He looked up. I could feel his blue eyes on me.
"How long do you think they'll last." It wasn't a question. I didn't expect a response. I continued,
"How long until they find a planet that they can settle on with all the resources? They'll be dead before they even make it to the nearest one. How long before they rape that planet too? A lot less time than it took to make this hell we're living in now. Sure everything they have up there is at the peak of human efficiency. But it's always been easier to apologize than it is to ask for permission, isn't it."
I spoke in flat tones. This was my obituary. I hoped he could hear it out there, wherever he was. Let him know I'm not bitter. Just disappointed.
"They'll forget what they did to this planet. It'll take a century or two, but they'll forget. They'll go back to creating plastics with no half-lives, combustible fuels, the works. Efficiency is hard. Things'll change for the worse. You'll see. Earth is just gonna be a fairy tale in one-hundred-and-fifty years, even though it should have been more fable. We'll be a legend just like how we were told as kids that you could see the stars at night 'once upon a time.' They're blasting away but they're not going anywhere."
Forget the terminology of the age. I had given up on hope a long time ago. I was born into the wrong era. The oxygen had already started to thin out.
I could see the rockets struggling to blast off, their thin flames burning a million breaths as they shone red against the black-smog sky.
The planetary power had been cut off. The glow of rocket engines for the past two weeks had been constant, and the only source of light. It's strange how beautiful fire is when it's going away from you. Beautiful and sad.
Soon the rockets launched fewer and fewer. The sky no longer roared and sputtered. Instead it sounded like the ocean simulator my father had created when I was a boy. A constant and gentle fuzz in the background of my eyes. I could still feel the rumbling in my stomach, intensified by hunger, but I no longer felt the constant trembling of the Earth.
The rockets sputter began to fade, and one last rocket whisked away through the sky in the distance completely silent as it slid through the thick atmosphere and smog.

And then it was dark. For the first time in a millennium it was naturally and wholly dark and perfectly quiet. I stared at the ground for hours, fumbling in the darkness with my hands. The silence was broken by a wail released from the Unchosen. It went on for hours.
My night-vision finally arrived and I looked at my hands and realized I had dug my nails into the my palms, forcing them to bleed. How silly of me not to notice. Now that I realized them they were quite painful.
The air was gone now. All around me sleeping bodies panted for breath, simply remaining conscious became a laborious and difficult effort.
I leaned back against a crate, and as I put weight onto my shoulders I noticed a light. I glanced up, surprised that a rocket could be this late in it's departure and the light was gone. As my chin began to make it's final journey into my chest I saw another light. I wept. I hadn't shed a tear since my fifteenth birthday, but here I was on death's bed, weeping with joy. The ships, in their fiery haste, had blown through the sky at such a speed that they had unintentionally cleared paths through the smog. Now, in near-perfect darkness the stars shone through the thinly-veiled spots in the sky where the rockets had torn through the pollution.
I turned my head to the side and stared at the man who's graying features were already turning sepia in my memory. His lifeless face was stuck in an upward position, mouth open, staring at the sky. With my gaze fixed on his features I could more clearly see the stars through the corners of my eyes. At least legends are remembered, I suppose.

Dad,
I'm not bitter, just disappointed I wasn't enough to come with you.
-Son

Bastard

Let The Bastard drown
In kidneys spitting bile
Teardrops and rainwater.

Let the acidity make ruins
Out of walls once strong.
And limestone can't decay
With chisel hits but it
Can be washed away in
Time, I pray, continue
Your turtle's course
Because you're winning

Anyways, I spat acid in
Vile yellow sin wrapped
Around greens because
It's all about the greed,
See?

Let The Bastard stand in
Tapped cigarette ash pits
Filled with snakes and stakes
With poisoned tips.

Let the bastard be
Disowned from Home,
Because love for him
Don't live here no more.