a_to_tha_q

6

2008-12-11T04:04:03Z

The Night Before Easter

2008-12-04T19:43:24Z

late in the night when the darkness surrounds
as the mice are a-skitter on their nightly rounds
and outside a lonely sedan is turned on
i wake up and see a strange thing on my lawn

i rub my eyes tiredly and what do i see?
(i forgot to mention this is on Easter eve)
a humongous rabbit is out on the grass
his eyes a dark and empty morass

i don't think he saw me, and i was sure glad
cause this bunny looked evil or at least slightly bad
and though he distributed the traditi'nal eggs
i still live in fear of his powerful legs

i have no doubt he could, if he were so inclined
decapitate me if he found me unkind
and with one single leap from those gigantic jumpers
could give brand new meaning to the old nickname Thumper.

but that night i lived to tell my fey tale
and ne'er again saw that lover of kale.
nonetheless, when Easter comes into my mind,
i live in great fear of all rodentkind.

Auxiliary StoryBurst 1

2008-12-04T19:41:30Z

===============
The Party
===============

Clowns. Eugh.

James had had quite enough of them. But they weren't about to go away, and so he resigned himself to their presence. That didn't mean he would laugh when they made those stupid faces or used a stupid voice. If the kids were enjoying it, though, he supposed all would be well. In the meantime, he needed another drink.

He strolled toward the bar and tried to mask his lack of respect for the "bartender," who looked about fifteen and seemed more familiar with sake bombs and kegstands than with martinis and tactful conversation. He asked for a White Russian and rolled his eyes when the kid consulted a little cheat sheet under the counter. But he got his drink and turned around on the barstool, surveying the room. This party was lame. It was trying to be everything to everyone. The kids' section, the bar, the karaoke, the buffet, the faux-gambling. It just wasn't that exciting. He kinda wished his kids were as bored as he was so he could give in to their pleas to just go home. Usually that's all they ever wanted. But now they were having more fun than ever watching some painted sociopath fold balloons. Figured.

He found himself no longer especially bored, however, when the eastern wall suddenly featured a large hole. The bricks flew inward and dust arose; everyone grew silent and the only sound was the voiceless music of Prince's "Kiss." As the dust cleared, several figures stepped forth through the brand-new entryway. They were wearing army uniforms and carrying rifles. Behind them was a Humvee, its engine growling menacingly. The soldier in front spoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Please remain calm. We have received reports that this party is sub-par, and we are here to terminate your boredom... with extreme prejudice."

The soldiers threw their guns to the side and began to gyrate to the music that was now being emitted by the Humvee. Flashing colored lights started up, as well, and the partygoers started to draw closer. Soon, the army uniforms were revealed to be hyper-stylized versions, and began to be systematically removed. The crowd was getting into it, other than a few parents who were ushering their children out of the building in uptight horror.

The lady soldier was down to her camouflage tank top and panties, and James was starting to enjoy himself, when some red and blue lights began to take precedence over the other flashing colored lights. Policemen entered through the hole in the building. One of them reached inside the Humvee and deactivated the music.

For a good time, see paragraph A.
For a silly time, see paragraph B.
-------
A

"This party's over!" he yelled. "You are under arrest for reckless driving, destruction of private property, and causing a nuisance, as well as, uh," looking at the soldier's leader, wearing only a camo g-string, "indecent exposure. Come with me."

The soldier strippers, looking sheepish, were led out of the hole in the wall and off to county jail. The party continued for another few hours, but not even the clowns could entertain the kids anymore, and James finally got to leave. And just as well, for if he drank any more he might not have been able to.

-------
B

"This party's over!" he yelled. "Y'all are under arrest for being way too sexy!"

The policemen and -women each grabbed one of the soldier strippers of the opposite sex and handcuffed their hands behind their backs. The music started up again and they began a surreal replication of normal arrest procedures; the suspects were patted down profusely, and then mock-read their rights as they were being spanked. After a few minutes, the "suspects" engineered an escape and the whole thing turned into a sexy fight scene, with shirts and pants being ripped off. James appreciated that some members of both groups were "defeated" and lay on the ground motionless. But by the end of it, everyone was making out, even the fallen ones, and the crowd was just loving it. The party wound down, and James was eventually able to go home, but he never was quite sure how they engineered that hole in the wall.

==================
Humble Background
==================

It was a job, sure, but it was hardly a career. And it's not like he was the best in the county or even especially more qualified than the average grade-school graduate. But what he had that everyone else lacked was little enough self-respect--and high enough credit card debt--that he was willing to clean bathrooms for eight dollars an hour.

This round was just to replace urinal cakes and make sure nothing problematic had occurred. The next round would be the floor-cleaning, and the next one a quick wipe-down of the counter and toilets. Then he would go home and Bill would take over, which meant Bill had two easy rounds in the middle of the night, but also had the comprehensive one where he had to clean all the surfaces, the mirror, and the floors before foot traffic picked up again in the morning. The administrators were adamant that impeccable hygiene be maintained consistently. And who could blame them? The patients were already sick enough, and this facility didn't provide many private bathrooms. So without frequent clean-up, the lavatories would likely be cesspits of new diseases for the other immune-weakened patients.

Still, there was probably no need to replace the urinal cakes so often. The things were pretty weird, and he never really got comfortable removing the old ones, even with gloves. But hell, things could be worse.

His cell phone rang and he examined the screen before answering it. It was a private number. He answered and was greeted by a recorded woman's voice informing him of the great new deals his cable company was offering. He cut the call short and went about his business feeling mildly superior until he realized that he kind of preferred the recorded voice to the silence.

It was then that he decided he needed a change. He needed to make something of his life, pay down his debt and get move out of his mother's house, and maybe find a goddamn girlfriend. He needed a job that didn't require many qualifications but which would pay well. Another job, like this one, that not many people wanted to deal with, but one, unlike this one, that elicited at least a little respect. He checked his watch; yep, he was at least thirty years old.

It was time for Dick Durbin to run for the United States Senate.

Final November StoryBurst

2008-11-28T23:49:17Z

It was a good job, relatively speaking. Jeremiah had only to watch the readouts and make sure nothing went wrong. Every so often he had to fill out a report. He could mostly just read and daydream, while still pulling in those sweet, sweet government benefits. And even though the job consisted of so little actual work, he could still feel like a productive member of society-- and he could still tell people what he did without feeling like a douchebag. Keeping an eye on the water filtration systems was necessary. Most of the time he wasn't doing anything, but sometimes he had to adjust the pressure or replace a part. And if he didn't do that, millions of people would find themselves receiving opaque water. In a sense, he was all that stood between the people of Cardstock City and a complete breakdown in health and hygiene. So he was proud of his job. Just a little bored.

Which was why he had set up his old GameCube with a crappy television on his desk. Nobody ever came down here, but even if they did, he suspected he would receive little more than a scolding shake of the head. He was playing a World War II game with the sound up so that he could hear any Nazis that might be hiding around corners, which was why he didn't hear an alarmed tone emanating from one of the dials. It didn't last very long.

---

Timothy replaced the filtration gate as quickly as he could. He knew that the people whose job it was to watch readouts or security displays or alarm indicators were almost universally more apt to ignore a momentary problem than to bother following it up. Any number of things could cause it, and as long as things returned to normal within a few seconds, the event would be chalked up to rodents or electrical surges. Nonetheless, he didn't want to take any chances. And now that he had passed the gate, he was past the point of no return. Plus, as far in as he was now, the water was murky. He knew what was in it, and was glad for the watertight suit he was wearing. It would still have been nice to be able to see more than a few feet in front of his goggles, though.

The water was flowing at him without reprieve; but this was why he had pneumatic suction poles. He started his slow ascent up the pipe.

Ten minutes later, Timothy arrived at a juncture. Left or right? He consulted his mental map. Left would take him to the eastern pumps. Right would take him to the western ones. Left it was.

---

William strolled along the catwalk, not going anywhere in particular but needing something to do. He had completed the maintenance for the day; the rest was just making sure nothing went wrong. And in his eleven years here, something had only gone wrong twice. On the one hand that seemed to make it very unlikely that anything would go wrong now. On the other hand, maybe it just meant they were due for a catastrophe. William had little to do but to think about this.

He paused at a control panel, checking the simple readouts in a cursory fashion. Nothing amiss there. But... he realized that in the background there was a new sound. A regular thunking, a sound unmistakeably produced by a blunt object meeting the pipes somewhere. And it was muffled. The sound was from inside the pipe.

---

Timothy was well aware of the unavoidable sound caused by every meter he traveled. He could only hope that nobody was paying attention. His options were drastically reduced if someone was. Nonetheless, he had attempted to address every eventuality. And getting out was always the easy part. As for the getting in, well, he was almost there.

He approached the incomprehensible swirl that he knew signified the water churned by the eastern pumps. He needed those pumps to stop. That was where the rebar came in.

---

William was sure something was going on now. He was creeping around the pipes trying to triangulate the source of the sounds. But with the sounds coming from inside the pipes, and the sheer number of pipes going through this room, and the ambient noise of the pumps, it was difficult. Something was in there, though, and it was moving toward the pumps. He decided he should probably alert someone. But as he turned to rush back to his office, the pump made a terrible screeching sound and then ground to a halt. It was still trying to function, and its motor sped up and started smoking before the automatic shutoff engaged.

William raised an eyebrow. Uh oh.

----

Timothy had no illusions now; someone would have noticed a pump shutting down. He removed his rebar contraption, briefly prayed that nobody would start the pumps again right away, and started crawling through. He had been training for this very sort of contorted wriggling for weeks now, but that didn't make it any less claustrophobic. More than once he felt like he would be stuck forever. But he finally emerged from the other side and, the flow of the water much abated with the loss of the pump, began the final leg of his journey.

----

William was running. He wasn't even sure who he would call; probably the police. What would he say, though? "There's someone in our pipes?" It's not like they could get in there to apprehend whoever it was. He did know, however, where the pipe would lead. He stopped running, and turned around.

The pipe itself arrived from the sewers. But between the sewer and the facility's pipes was a massive steel grate designed to keep out any detritus large enough to cause problems with the pumps. Highly-paid and wholly-unenvied maintenance workers cleared out anything that got stuck there--notified by a motion-sensing camera and alarm. Perhaps the intruder knew about the alarm; but more probably, he just knew about the heavy-duty grate.

So the only exit point between the grate and the pumps, where the intruder was right now, was an access hatch. The corridor to which it gave access was but a few meters from the central facility control room. This being Thanksgiving, it was poorly staffed. William wished he had a radio or something, but he didn't and so now he was running again.

----

The hatch was in a little alcove on top of the pipe so that a maintenance worker opening it would not flood the access corridor. It also meant that Timothy could stand up while he slowly lifted the hatch from its closed position. It hinged open, and he guided it to its open position, careful not to let the heavy steel make any inconvenient noises. Nobody seemed to be in the area, so Timothy quickly lifted himself from the pipe. He removed his flippers and scuba gear and dropped them back in the pipe; he wasn't planning on leaving the same way he came in. He quietly closed the hatch and started padding towards the control room.

He had only gotten a few steps before he heard the unmistakable clangs of shoes against an iron walkway. He found a beam to hide behind and removed his knife from its sheath. A man ran right past him, but slowed when he saw the closed hatch. He took up a sentry position near the hatch, oblivious to Timothy's approach from behind.

---

William held a wrench in front of him, waiting for the intruder to open the hatch. Suddenly, he was jerked backwards and felt cold metal at his throat.

"Keep quiet," hissed a voice behind him. "You're coming with me."

William was led toward the control room. He remembered the wrench; the intruder must not have noticed. He ran through potential offensive scenarios in his head, but they all ended quite bloodily for him. He decided to wait a bit. Once they got in the control room, the intruder would likely be distracted at some point, either dealing with whoever was in there, or doing whatever it is he was trying to do. Then he would make his move...

---

The Nazis kept coming. Jeremiah knew this game wouldn't stop throwing them at him until he passed a certain invisible checkpoint. But he kept dying every time he tried to make a run for it. Frustrated, he paused the game and took a gulp of coffee. With the sound of the game suddenly put on hold, however, he heard a scuffling sound outside the control room door. Nobody else was supposed to come in today, and if there was something he should know from one of the maintenance guys, they would have called him, not come to see him. Excited, he dug through a drawer and pulled out a dinky .22 caliber pistol. Trying not to dwell on his sudden fantasies of saving the day from an unknown menace, he took up a semi-policeman-like position with the gun pointed at the door.

It opened, and he saw one of the maintenance guys being held by a hidden captor. A knife protruded from behind and threatened the man's neck, but there was no exposed part of the captor to shoot at. Perhaps this foe had been watching just as many action movies as Jeremiah.

He was certainly a loud fellow, though. "Put the gun down, buddy! You don't want your friend here to bleed out all over the floor."

Jeremiah faltered. "... Tim? Is that you?"

Tim's head popped up from behind the maintenance guy's shoulder. "Oh my god! Jer! I didn't even recognize you, I just saw the gun, and... You work here? That's crazy!"

"No kidding, man! What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know... I got caught up in this international conspiracy thing to hold the city's water supplies hostage. They really just need some cash to get moving on some bigger projects, so they figured we'll ask for a few million bucks, in and out."

"Hm. I guess that could work. You can pretty much control everything from this room."

"Well, yeah, I mean... that's why I'm here. God, that is so weird, I had no idea you worked here."

"Yeah, I've been here a while now. It's a pretty great job. You see how I spend my days." Jeremiah gestured toward the GameCube.

"Dude, that is sweet. I gotta get me a job like that... This shit is difficult. How did you even-"

And then Timothy was unconscious, his skull caved in by a sudden blow from a wrench that the maintenance guy had apparently been holding.

Jeremiah and William looked at each other for a moment before leaping into the air and high-fiving. As their hands met, the picture froze and some credits rolled.

After the credits, they were each awarded massive monetary bonuses by the municipal government. Jeremiah bet all of his on a long-shot horse at the races and won. With his newfound fortune he quit his job, got really lonely and depressed, took up cocaine, and was found dead 7 months later behind a massage parlor.

William bought a new computer but kept his job. He was able to pay off some of his credit card debt, but, feeling like he had more money than he actually did, he took up playing World of Warcraft, met a woman from Missouri, and spent all his savings flying out to meet her. The airline lost his luggage on the way there, and then she turned out to be like 400 pounds. Disappointed, he returned broken-hearted and empty-closeted. A few weeks later, when the airline found and returned his luggage, it was too late; he had already bought a bunch of new clothes--on credit-- and didn't have space for the old ones in his closet. He gave most of them to Goodwill. One of his button-up shirts was purchased by a fellow who was going to have a job interview for the first time in several months and wanted to look presentable; on his way to the office, however, he was struck by a Mack truck. Twenty-six years later, the driver of this truck would be vetted as a vice presidential candidate, but ultimately rejected.

THE END

StoryBurst 4

2008-11-24T18:31:03Z

=========================
Lycopenthropy
=========================
It all started with a bottle of ketchup.

It wasn’t even a brand-name variety. Justin was pretty sure it was the store brand. But Harriet didn’t care; he had used her ketchup and she wasn’t going to take it sitting down.

“You have no respect for other people’s property! We specified on the rental agreement that we would buy our own food. And I distinctly remember making sure that you understood that that applied to condiments, rice, seasonings, everything.”

“Yeah, but I—“

“No, there are no buts! You can’t just go about your life with the attitude that ‘oh, this one little violation won’t matter.’ And regardless of that, I was very clear that under no circumstances could you eat my food. You’re such an asshole.”

“Well, look, I’m sorry! I’ll buy you another bottle, okay?”

Harriet sighed with exaggerated exasperation. “It doesn’t work like that. You can’t just buy your way out of this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I used some of your ketchup, a physical commodity. I will replace the negligible amount that I used, plus about 1600% interest in ketchup form. Why can’t I buy my way out of this?”

“Because it’s not about the ketchup!”

Justin’s eyes were wide with incredulity and he flailed his arms as if attempting to find some plausible concept to grasp. Finding none, he merely sputtered and then threw down his arms. “What is it about then? What can I do? Or are you just gonna attack me for a while? I mean, it would be nice for you to let me know if there’s even any point in responding or if you’re just sort of yelling to yourself.”

--------------------

“What’s happening?” Beeps and gurney wheels constituted the bulk of the background noise.

“You know him, it’s anyone’s guess. Something about ketchup.” The nurse scribbled on a clipboard.

Justin rocked back and forth, his eyes unfocused, the straitjacket preventing his spasmodic muscle movements from hurting himself.

===============================
9:54 AM
===============================

Genevieve picked up the phone.

"Thank you for calling J.R. Peyton and Son where all your home cleaning needs are addressed please be aware that this call may be recorded for purposes of quality assurance this is Genevieve how can I help you today."

"Uhm, yes, hello, my name is Henry Burton, I recently purchased one of your Moplet six-packs?"

"We thank you for your business do you have the package handy sir."

"Uhm, yes, it's right here, do you need the serial number or something?"

"Please look on the bottom of the package and state clearly the number you see there."

"Well, that's.. right, okay, so it's, uhm, PEN-KJS823."

Genevieve took the opportunity presented by the man's expectant silence to gaze out the window. She took a relatively deep breath before continuing.

"Thank you sir the lot number helps us to track comments on our products and address issues more efficiently now what can we do for you today."

"Well, you see, I was using the Moplet--which is great, let me just say, they're all I ever use to clean the kitchen floor--but the strangest thing happened. And mind you, I've been using this product for quite some time now, so I know how it's supposed to act, but this was definitely not normal. So I had assembled it and was, you know, mopping, when all of a sudden the little, uh, the... the you know, strands, or whatever, on the end? They turned into snakes."

"That is indeed unexpected behavior sir can you tell me more about these snakes."

"Well, they, uh... they were sort of brown with orange and black stripes. Like there were orange stripes, but there was some black lining the orange."

"Did the snakes attack you sir."

"Well, no, I sort of got away from them once I noticed, and, you know, they're still attached to the mop head thing, so I don't think they're going anywhere."

"Sir it sounds like your Moplet has turned into kingsnakes. They are not poisonous and if you can detach them from the Moplet they make good pets. Otherwise, I would suggest contacting your local Animal Control Department. Is there anything else I can do for you today."

"Erm, well, no, but I -"

"Thank you for calling J.R. Peyton and Son your call means a lot to us have a great day."

Genevieve hung up and typed "RESOLVED" in the Call Report. She checked her clock and sighed.

StoryBurst 3

2008-11-21T19:58:56Z

Jennifer was a tall woman with sharp features, and she found it easy to intimidate men. Unfortunately, Jennifer was also a timid woman with an inferiority complex, and she found it most horrifying to be intimidating to men. She had no desire to be in control of the situation. So she slouched, and looked at the ground, and never raised her voice. Usually this worked.

At the moment she was glad to be tall, however; she grabbed the 24-pack of toilet paper from the top shelf, grateful not to have to impose on anyone and ask for assistance. Actually, had she been unable to reach it, she would simply have modified her intentions and grabbed the 12-pack on the shelf below. But she didn't realize this at the time.

When she was young, she had been on volleyball teams, and almost got a scholarship in that sport to attend Brown. But she didn't, and she ended up going to UC Denver, and she majored in Literature, and then she worked as an administrative assistant for the next 6 years. Every so often she told herself she would join a local volleyball team, or a yoga class, or get a gym membership, but then she would look at her life, have trouble finding where she would get the time and energy to devote to something like that, and delay any action.

She put the toilet paper in her cart, thinking that maybe it would have been better to have gotten it last instead of first; now all her other groceries would have to be finagled on an individual basis somewhere between the cart's walls and the massive prism of toilet paper rolls. It was kind of a bother. But she consoled herself with the thought that after managing this one shopping trip, she would be set on toilet paper for months.

Jennifer hadn't been married yet, and she hadn't dated anyone for a couple years. She was well aware that this might have something to do with her timidity and her propensity to leave the house socially less often than she menstruated. She told herself it wasn't really a big deal, not her first priority, and she was doing fine so far, so why bother seeking almost assured disappointment? But she knew she was just fooling herself and couldn't ignore the consistent emptiness which haunted her lonely moments.

She handed the unwieldy toilet paper package to the cashier, who rotated it several times in several dimensions in search of the bar code. Jennifer had actually handed it to the cashier with the bar code at face-level, and sighed a little at his failure to notice it. He then scanned her milk, her frozen dinners, her cat food, her shampoo. She watched the material manifestations of her life be abstracted into numbers representing their value. She was just standing there. The cashier was standing there as well as waving items at a machine. But they were both at its mercy.

And even if they weren't aware of this, the machine sure was.

----------------------
----------------------

The clock ticked. Without fail, it then tocked.

It was an unwelcome reminder of inevitability, of impossibility, of the lack of control James had. He could frantically do anything and everything to slow or stop it, he could sit back and concentrate real hard, he could try to ignore it. But the clock would stare at him, expressionless, and continue to tick and tock at the exact same intervals. Tick. Tock.

It was a monument to the arbitrariness of reality, it was a primitive attempt to make the organism that is existence into a cyborg, stabbing shoddily-made clocks and watches and calendars into the soft tender skin of time, like thermometers into a turkey, except the turkey was still alive and couldn't give any less of a shit what you tried to stab into it. Tick. Tock.

He was orbiting the progression of time. He could change his position relative to its mass, but he could never alter its location. He could never have an effect on its attributes. He could run toward it for as long as he wanted, but he would only ever be running around it, and it would be no different in the end if he had never existed in the first place. Tick. Tock.

It was sort of admirable. Time is exactly the way James wanted to be. Dissociated, indifferent, unfazed by the meaningless lives of others. To be affected by that which one cannot control is weakness. To be dependant on that which one can never trust to be there is foolishness. To go about one's life for the benefit of others, rather than for the self, is merely accepting death before it comes. Tick. Tock.

But wasn't that what he was doing? Magnum in the mouth, note on the end table? It was an okay note, as notes went, but James knew if he looked at it again he would just want to rewrite it. This sort of note wasn't ever covered in the Chicago Manual of Style. He hadn't had the wherewithal to draw up a will, so he had needed to at least be clear what his intentions were for his stuff. He also knew that people would be confused, that they would say things like "We had no idea", and he wanted to make sure they were aware that this did not arise out of a trauma or depression that they might be keen to blame themselves for. Tick. Tock.

His eyes flit about, resting briefly on the clutter around his bedroom. Each item was nothing more than an image now, and he was still enough that they might as well have been two-dimensional. The snowglobe he got from Rebecca when she went to France, the horrid sweater his mother got him for his birthday the year she died, the stereo system he had bought in a misguided attempt to feel as though he were making some progress in life. They were all just sitting there, having no effect on anyone. They were indicative of the past, but the past was just dreams. And to be reminded of dreams is like lifting up a sheet; the very act of doing it deforms the original, placing disproportionate emphasis on the parts of the sheet that are being lifted, on the parts of the dream that are being recalled. Tick. Tock.

He had taken the day off from work today, and he regretted the annoyance he had heard in his boss' voice. He knew that annoyance would haunt his boss for years, who would bury his face in his hands and feel terrible despite the fact that he had had nothing to do with this, and couldn't have done anything to prevent it. He didn't like that loose thread, but he could hardly address it specifically in the note, for fear of the tactic backfiring. In any case, it wasn't that problematic of a loose thread anyway, and, all things considered, now was as good a time as any.

Tick.

StoryBurst 2

2008-11-15T06:15:51Z

Without her hearing aid, Chrysten had no chance of deciphering the frantic noises emanating from her brother. The body language, however, was unmistakeable: RUN. She grabbed the few items in her vicinity that seemed useful and followed him out the back door.

The sight before her was reminiscent of nothing so much as a disaster movie; hordes of people fleeing, unorganized and deafening. Chrysten was glad not to have her hearing aid for once. She turned to see what was behind the horde she had now joined, but nothing made itself apparent. She surveyed the crowd as she ran among them. Most were looking ahead, or at a friend or family member. A few stole glances upward. She tilted her head up and slowed to a jog, and then to a dazed amble.

The thing was huge, and though depth perception was tricky at distances like this, it must have been several miles in the air. It was round, at least from this perspective; there was no way to tell how tall it might be. Chrysten suspected it wouldn't matter one way or the other, just as she suspected that all this running was probably not going to pay off much. Suddenly her brother was there, pulling on her arm and motioning for her to continue her flight. She tried to yell at him, asking where they were going, but either he didn't understand her, he didn't hear her, or he responded inaudibly. Being mostly deaf was highly inconvenient.

As it turned out, however, all it really meant was that she was spared the terror that struck everyone else as the massive beam first stabbed into the ground behind them and then was directed, like the light from a lamp, nearer and nearer to Chrysten's position. She had only just begun to entertain the possibility that those were screams she was hearing when her atoms were dissociated from one another, not violently so much as fundamentally. It was as though they had never had anything to do with one another. For the briefest instant, however, in the fury of the randomly swirling atoms, most of the left side of her head was reconstituted, hearing intact. Oh, thought the powers of nature, as their hard work was being utterly fragmented. That's all that was missing.

--------------

He awakened, sand in his mouth, unable to orient himself. The last thing he remembered... Rotterdam, Julia, the boat... the boat. He was sailing to St. Eustatius for the trading company. But... now he was face down in the sand and the back of his neck felt like it was on fire. He rolled over and tried to spit out the sand, a task made more difficult by the near-complete lack of moisture in his mouth. Opening his eyes for more than an instant took several minutes, as the merciless sun pounded his brain every time he tried. Eventually he grew inured enough to its effects to be able to look around him. It was definitely a beach, and there was definitely nobody else in sight. Dense foliage lined the beach behind him.

He gazed out upon the ocean, looking for any sign of.... there it was. Roughly a quarter of the ship was above water, pointing straight up. There must have been a reef hidden underwater.

Well this kinda sucked. He took stock of himself. Clothes were mostly intact, if a little damp and itchy and sandy. He didn't feel like anything was broken, except maybe a rib. But it was also possible he was just badly bruised on that side. He stood up, and other than a little dizziness, felt pretty okay. Not bad!

He was just reflecting on how, if he had to be stranded on a deserted island, this would be a pretty ideal situation, when from out of the bushes leapt a monstrous animal. It was large, and it was nimble, but most of all it was forcibly removing Nikolaj's jugular.

StoryBurst 1

2008-11-15T06:10:14Z

It was dark out, and cold.

Brief attempts at a breeze tugged at his coattails, failing to distract him from the task at hand. He slowly lifted a foot, planted it firmly on the British commander's chest, and coaxed his rapier from its corporeal scabbard. Examining the lifeless military genius before him, Washington grabbed a pinch of snuff from his inner coat pocket, lifted it to his nose to savor its invigorating scent, and inhaled it in a single violent snort.

He lifted his gaze, surveyed the battlefield briefly, and chose the highest-ranking officer he could see. Casually ducking and sidestepping stray bullets, he began the purposeful stride that could only end in the shuffling off of his target's mortal coil.

----------

Helen took another bite of last night's casserole.

"It's not like you're never gonna have another chance, you know."

"I know. But this would have been perfect timing. I need the money, and God knows I'm not getting any younger." Liz poured herself some Honey Nut Cheerios.

"Oh come on. It was hardly the ideal circumstance. The guy had fucking warts."

"Yeah, well. I need rent money, and if dealing with the warts is what it takes, I wouldn't complain. He was pretty loaded." Liz snaked her arm to the back of the refrigerator and maneuvered a quart-sized milk carton through the jungle of abandoned juices and condiments.

"I think you can do a lot better. What about that guy from Springfield? He seemed to like you."

"He got married. Moved to Virginia."

"Bummer. And hey, what does getting older have to do with it?"

"Oh, don't be patronizing. People want a pretty face, nice skin. It's not all about skill. And even if it was, it's not like I'm getting any practice recently." Liz sat across from Helen, staring at her cereal.

"Eh. It's like riding a bike. And from what I hear, you're the best in the county."

"Maybe you should notify the population, cause that bitch Julianne is getting all the business. I dunno, maybe I should pursue a new career." Liz sighed and got up to fetch the spoon she had forgotten.

"Oh, don't be like that." Helen scraped the last bits of spinach from her bowl. "You're doing what you love. You'll get back on your feet and you'll feel accomplished and content. If you went out and got a job at a video store or something you'd just feel empty inside. You'd miss seeing those relaxed, satisfied looks. You thrive on giving people physical pleasure. You always have."

"Look, I never said that massage therapy was my life's work. I like it, yeah, but I think there are things I'd like more." Liz sat back down.

"Oh yeah?" Helen raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Like what?"

Liz savored the first crunchy bite of her cereal. "I dunno. Prostitution?"

------------------

It had been seven weeks since the bomb went off, but Franklin still went through the same routine every morning; wake up in good cheer, throw open the curtains, frown at the lack of sunshine, grow horrified at the clouds of ash, and then, finally, re-enter despondency as he remembered all that had happened.

Today was no different. Except, of course, that he was now out of beans, which, with the previous consumption of all his meat and eggs, left him wholly without a source of protein. There were still scattered cans of creamed corn, and beets, and something called Nutella. But Franklin needed to find a source of food other than pillaging the houses of his erstwhile neighbors. What he really needed was to leave the town, find somewhere where society was still functioning, like everyone else had done. But Franklin had no car, and nobody else had a spot for him as they frantically fled. And now, according to the radio, nobody was allowed to enter the entire tri-county area for fear of radiation. He had seen one plane fly over the town a few weeks ago, but he hadn't had the presence of mind before it arrived to set up some indication that he was still there; and though he had now arranged spare lumber into a large "HELP," no other planes were forthcoming. The town was a small one; even before everyone evacuated, the population never broke three digits. No doubt any rescue efforts would be concentrating on the cities.

But the task at hand was to find breakfast. Franklin wrapped a t-shirt around his nose and mouth, put on the safety goggles he had salvaged from the local hardware store, and grabbed an empty canvas sack and a lead pipe. Mildly invigorated by the preparation for his quest, he set out to the south, toward the wealthier part of town, where he hadn't yet exhausted the possibilities, but where people didn't characteristically buy most of their food in canned form. At first, he had reasoned that the poor people would have less food and poorer quality, so it would go bad faster and it would make sense to leave the better stuff until later, but he was soon disillusioned. Plus, of course, the fleeing families had reflexively locked their doors despite having no realistic chance of ever returning to the town.

Franklin preferred not to have to break windows (especially not rich-person windows, with their double-glazing and reinforcement). A house sealed against the outside was a good thing to have when the ash storms started up. Franklin now had several such safehouses around town, including the house next door to the one he was targeting today. It was therefore not important that he refrain from vandalizing this one; nonetheless, he tried all the doors and pushed all the windows in hopes of finding something unlocked. Upon being disappointed, he sighed, set down his sack, and lifted the pipe to attack the largest window at ground floor he could find. Before he could swing, however, he was stilled by a sound coming from inside. He held his breath and listened. The ash swirled around, and dry trees crackled in the distance, but other than that it was just the pure eerie silence that had taken up residence in the town. His heart thumping, and his brain hoping against hope that he wasn't going to regret this, he took as hearty a swing as he could muster, cracking the window. This time he was sure he heard something inside, something skittering in fear. Something alive! Franklin was hopeful. It was probably a rat or some other vermin, but maybe someone had left their dog or cat here and he could save it. On the other hand, whatever it was might well have rabies, or at least ravenous hunger. It would probably be best just to --

The glass shattered outward so strongly that even if nothing else had happened, Franklin might have been blinded. As it turned out, though, the glass was the least of his worries, as he found himself flailing wildly against growling, hairy, scratchy, slobbery, toothy attacks. The animal pinned him down and clamped down on Franklin's throat, shaking vigorously. As his neck gave in to the violent force and finally severed itself from his spinal cord, Franklin realized: the teeth, the lips around them, the position of the nose where it met his neck, the curly, scratchy hair, the hands that were holding his own arms down... this animal was human. Or it used to be.

5

2008-10-28T04:36:56Z

3 - haiku madness

2008-10-17T05:25:27Z

2

2008-10-16T03:41:00Z

1

2008-10-14T06:35:13Z

A day.

2008-04-01T22:57:51Z

12:52: I am currently at the Hayward BART/Greyhound station, half-heartedly waiting for a Greyhound bus that was supposed to be here almost 2 hours ago. This is only the most recent in a series of terrible events. I planned today to take the 1:42 bus from Gonzaga to the Spokane transit plaza, and then the 2:05 to the airport, to get me there in plenty of time for my flight. I just barely got the bus, after having left the dorm at 1:39. The buses were 2 dollars in total, much better than the 25 dollars that the taxi would have cost. So i was in high spirits, but these are always dampened by the harried atmosphere of airports. I was graciously allowed to go ahead of a huge group of girls excited to go to Hawaii in the bag checking/boarding pass-acquisition line. Pass in hand, I waddled my way through security, losing my pocketknife (which i had neglected to remember to place in my checked bag) in the process. Oh well; no harm, no foul. I should have remembered.

I waited for the plane; it was scheduled for 4:05 but had already been pushed back to 4:15 by the time i checked in. as 4:00 rolled around, it became apparent it would be a little later. by 4;35, however, we were lined up and ready to board. I was near the end, of course, and so i filed in with the rest of them and found a nice aisle seat in the back. We sat and we waited. The lights flickered a bit more than usual. By about 5:30 we were told to deplane (boss, deplane!); the indicator light which would tell the pilots if anything was wrong with the electricity wasn't working, and new parts were needed. They would look for a new plane; it should take "about an hour."

Well, they probably found it in about an hour. But it was about an hour and a half before we would be scheduled to board it, and a half hour after that before we were ready to finally take off. A 7:30, though, we were definitively in the air and on the way south. By this point i had become well aware that my original plans to get from oakland to santa cruz were in peril; the last highway 17 express leaves san jose at 10:40, and i would no longer be able to get there at that time. so with some quick rescheduling with the help of Laura and some 4-dollar-for-15-minutes internet I decided i'd chance a greyhound instead. I had no ticket, of course, but it was the on;ly option outside of a soon-to-be-very wealthy taxi driver. It would mean taking the BART from Oakland to Hayward and getting the bus there at 11.

At first, if you can believe it, i scoffed at this time, thinking it so very within my abilities as to constitute an almost uncomfortably long wait.

We landed at 9:20. I had presciently sat in the front of the plane this time, that i might escape early, and so i got off at about 9:30. The only obstacle then remaining was the retrieval of my checked bag. I strolled to the carousels and called my father, reporting my imminent success.

Then i waited. I waited until 10:20, along with the rest of my flight, in vain. I never saw my bag, but it was no longer an option to hang around if i was to catch the 11:00 Greyhound. So, cursing Southwest under my breath, I jogged to the AirBART, paid the fare in the last 3 dollars of change i had on me, and started the internal cheerleading to just get there already. We arrived at the Oakland BART station and after some confusion, which was cleared up by a man who spoke almost no english, and none with plosives, found the right train. It would get me to hayward at 10:54. I cheered it on as well, and it did not disappoint.

Armed with only an address and a general distance from the BART station, i quickly surveyed the alien landscape around me in search of this mythical Greyhound which would deliver me very nearly to my front door. I found its station with zero minutes to spare (and agan with the guidance of fair Laura), and then remembered my lack of a ticket. Unlike certain rapid transit systems, greyhound insists that you buy tickets in person or online; there are no automated dispensers. They station was of course closed. My only hope was that they would take cash at the door; this was a hope somewhat restricted by the fact that i had none. So i skittered back to the bart station to ask if they knew the greyhound's policies on buying tickets on the spot, which went essentially unanswered, and also if they could direct me to the nearest ATM. They could. and did, and it was a few blocks away at a Lucky's. I ran, encumbered by my two more important pieces of luggage (laptop and backpack), momentarily grateful that i didn't end up getting my larged checked bag at the last minute, and quickly bought a bottle of water, getting forty dollars back as well. I ran back, bust stopped when i noticed a trio of older women still waiting for the bus. I checked my watch: 11:06. Oh well. the waiting game is one i'm fairly good at. By 11:30, the leader of the older women was taking every opportunity to remark upon how strange it was that the bus hadn't yet come. I couldn't help but agree, in a despondent sort of way. I called the posted number, which gave very little useful information, but did list cancelled buses; ours was not among them. I was even able to get online on someone's wireless, which allowed me a brief moment of email checking and the like; I thought that perhaps i would buy a ticket right there online, but of course by that time they thought it should be impossible to purchase a ticket for something that should already have left. In any case, i decided it was time tio stop brandishing my laptop, and continued pacing and waiting. This continued for an hour, after which i essentially made up my mind to just take the bart back to millbrae, caltrain to diridon, and then highway 17 in the morning. But BARTs had stopped running and would not resume until 4 in the morning. So i returned, defeated, to the relative comfort of benches with the older women and another would-be traveler, and (after being accosted by one fellow who was worried that he was out past his probation curfew and needed a cell phone, and another who was upset that his Social Security, which is normally direct-deposited at midnight on the first of the month, had not been, leaving him stranded) started writing this. It is now 1:34. and time to perhaps relocate, as during my writing i have been left alone on a frigid Hayward bench.

2:46: I found a tree with power, so I can write some more and charge the ipod as well. I decided I was tired and didn't want to do nothing while I waited for the barts, and perhaps get a little sleep for the day tomorrow (which will be no great picnic). Also I was getting pretty cold. Fortunately, my clothes were all in my backpack, so one t-shirt went on my head, and another kept my hands company. Soon enough, a third went right where t-shirts should go. I found an out-of-the-way spot near the BART doors that I hypothesized would keep me out of the view of any potential hoodlums while also affording me a level of publicity if anything did "go down." Wrapping my arms through straps of my bags, I set my cell phone alarm for 4 am and closed my eyes at 1:44,

Fifteen minutes later, i had convinced myself that I had no real desire to sleep and that i also had things to do. I realized that on my way back on the BART, i could stop by the airport-- a 6-dollar and probably half-hour detour-- and retrieve my last bag. This would probably be preferable to however they might attempt to get it to me (expensive fedexing? requiring a physical pickup?), and i wouldn't have to worry about it any more. Plus, transportation in the morning is always plentiful, and I just have to be on campus by 10:30 for a meeting, which could even be skipped if need be. So a 4:something departure from hayward, a ~4:30 arrival at oakland again, airbart for 10 minutes, fetching for ten minutes, and airbart back for ten more minutes, and then on to millbrae should still leave me more than enough time to get home, enjoy a shower, and bestow undeserved praise on myself for a bit. Of course this hasn't been a journey of great punctuality, but I'm playin the odds.

Anyhoo, to effect this detour, I will need 6 dollars in cash. So I decided to go back to Lucky's to buy something inconsequential-- breakfast?--and then get some change as well. Lucky's was closed. They did, however, feature an inviting-looking stairwell, which, it turned out, gave access to the upper-story parking lot. Before that, though, it gave access to someone's forgotten bag of Panda Express food and a shielded area. Inquisitive adventurer that I am, i took a gander; this resulted in me also eventually taking parts of a cow, broccoli plant, chicken, rice, and an unopened fortune cookie. The fortune reads, "CHEERFUL COMPANY AND A MERRY TIME ARE AHEAD FOR YOU". I was under the impression that i had just come from all that into just the opposite, but perhaps it was meant for the person who bought the food in the first place. I continued, then, to a 76 station across the way, where I made a purchase through bulletproof glass and a metal drawer. I got beef jerky; the concept of splurging on a normally too-rich-for-my-blood item during my night of hobo-eroticism was too juicy (unlike the jerky itself)- to ignore. I also got my dollars in change, of course, and then went back to Lucky's and its shielded stairwell to regroup. It was then that I had most of the food (the first time I had only had a piece of broccoli and the fortune cookie). I re-tied my t-shirt doo-rag and set off to find somewhere to set up this, my lovely lappy. My powers of observation were tested to the limit as I explored this semi-main street in search of an exposed outlet. None in the Lucky's parking lot-to-ground floor elevator, though it was quite warm and probably wouldn't be used by anyone else till nearly 5 am; i filed this information away in case I needed warmth or privacy at some point. No outlet in the parking lot, though no surprise there. The trees on B Street all seem to have something the size of an outlet, but they are shielded by some manner of plastic that I hadn't the wherewithal to defeat. ACE Hardware had an outlet on their facade; however, it did not provide any power. Newman Park seemed designed more for chess players than yuppies and their lappies. Upper B Street was populated; I chose that moment to cross the street and double back to check the other side of the street. No more facades seemed to feature an outlet, not even non-functional ones, which i found sort of strange. Trees continued to tempt me with blank plastic should-be-outlets, until I found this one. Irma, i call her. She is a pretty tree, and someone has noticed this; to really bring out her prettiness, she has been outfitted with christmas lights. She is the only one on the street so adorned. To facilitate this apparel, the box had been unshielded and the outlets exposed. I used the remaining one to plug in Zsolt here, and then Xavier into him (lappy and iPod). It is now 3:09. Less than an hour remains before loitering in front of the BART may no longer seem fruitless.

I feel like the richest street person ever. This would be true even if i were naked and possessionless, for I have yet to see one clearly identifiable street person here. Bus stations always have their share of ne'er do-wells, but they were all on the move. I did see one silhouette in the distance in the courtyard of City Hall, but was too far removed to resolve the question entirely; i did, however, notice no backpack or plastic bag or shopping cart. Nonetheless, the image of a college kid wearing clothes in silly places (by this point, to facilitate prehensility, i had enveloped one hand in a couple of socks, while the other was wrapped in shirt) on a laptop sitting on the sidewalk, his gadgets plugged into a tree at 3 in the morning in Hayward, is one which I shall treasure always. It is also one which causes me to wonder about the reaction of the Hayward Police to it. Would they be so entranced by its essential beauty? One would like to think so.

3:24: the creepiness with which people can be perfectly nice astounds me.

5:29: I am now waiting at the Oakland airport. deja vu all over again?

yes. I'm even at the same table I waited a week ago for the plane to spokane.

So i went back to the elevator to take in its warmth, then sauntered on back to the BART station (this time i did see a bona fide street person; she fixed her elegant gaze on me with great apparent difficulty, and remarked in that casually aggressive way she has, "'s fuckin cold.") . First one in the gates, snagged a schedule booklet so i'd feel prepared, then waited for the first northbound train. It came promptly at 4:14, all went well, I got off at the Coliseum at 4:30 and was ready for an AirBART!... except they don't start till 5. So i waited till 5, took a newspaper (for which i was later accosted and charged a whole quarter) from the stack outside of the door, and then waited a few minutes longer for the bus to actually appear. Got on with a bunch of other grumpy early-morning travelers, and then arrived at the airport. 5:23 I ask the fellows when the baggage place open. They reply 6, maybe 6:30. They don't know. I have to hope the former or at least the latter. If 6:30 comes round and no baggage forthcomes, I gotta get out of Dodge.

Anyway, in this little pathetic overpriced cafe I bought an appallingly-reasonably-priced hot chocolate and am now whiling away the desperate minutes during which by all rights i should be sleeping and not hoping to acquire my own bag.

Thus far: Bus from gonzaga to spokane airport: 2 dollars
Extra Quiznos sandwich to cover extra time waiting in airport: 8 dollars
airbart: 3 dollars once, twice, and soon to be a third time
BART: 2.15 once and twice, and 4.65 in the hopefully-near future.
Bottle of aquafina to get 20s for phantom greyhound: 1.74, i think
bag of beef jerky to split 20 into 1s for non-phantom airbart : 2.99
.25 for being one of the first readers of the Chronicle today. Weak plot, too many characters.
Caltrain remains to be seen
Highway 17: 3.50 or something

And so the aborted attempt to get home has thus far cost me slightly less extra than i saved by taking the bus initially instead of a taxi. Hurray! It must be that Mercury simply wishes me to spend a set amount on travel before I am allowed home. I shoulda taken the taxi.

7:36: So far mostly on schedule. Got my bag even before 6; five baggage folk were waiting there just for me, and i realized only after telling it that my story was meaningless to them. I showed id, i got my bag, i rushed to the airbart, and then it sat there for 15 minutes before she decided to just take me and the one other guy. Back at the real Bart station, i shared the news of my triumph with the man who extorted 25 cents for a newspaper, and then was off to the 6:23 bart to daly city. got there right on time, switched to the millbrae train right on time, and got there right on time also; got the caltrain ticket, oriented myself, and got the train right on time: 7:32. All that remains now is to notice when we're at Diridon (should be 8:13) and then get a 17 to take me back hoommmmme finally and with maybe some time for cleanup. I semi-slept a bit from Oakland to Daly City, but am essentially running on fumes. although! I have some more jerky left over. Yum time. I am eyeing the fellow to my right, whose side of the train has a sexy-lookin outlet. But at this point I think i can ration remaining gadget power till the end.

8:27: Ahh... finally on the lovely Highway 17 Express, and only 11 hours after I had intended to be. Spirits are high, however. My day's mood is once more dependent on the outcome of the first LGST senior seminar class at 2; I'm not registered because it's full but I need it to graduate, so I can only hope that the prof will find it in his soul to allow my presence. As far as traveling goes, though, barring any ridiculous unforseen circumstances, I am in the clear and very nearly home with what looks like a comfortable time period to spare before the beginning of what, for me, is really only the epilogue of this adventurous day.

the end!

epilogue: I arrived home at 9:30; classes all went well, and i'm in the important senior seminar, but a drop of this computer while getting off of the 17 has borked some of the display. it's all under warranty, but what a bitch.

a_to_tha_q @ 2007-05-27T13:41:00

2007-05-27T20:42:17Z

I don't know what to say
I don't know what to do
I don't know how to change the world
to bring myself to you

I don't know how to start
and i don't know how to quit
I've never known the first damn thing
about how to do this shit

And I don't know
I'm not usually
an extracurricular kinda guy
but someone's been putting out flyers
next to tap dance and gospel choirs
and maybe i'm just super tired
but i'd really like to really try.

so i'll just take this little tab
with a scribbled name and phone number
and I swear i'll call when i get home
and see if i can't see what's up

I don't have a car; but I can take a cab.
I don't have a house; but i can find some lumber.
I don't have real nice hair; but I can get a comb.
I don't have that much money; but i'll hold out a cup.

I know i lack a few required
skills and attributes and stuff
but i learn fast, i swear i do,
the motivation's more than enough

I filled out the application
My references are okay too
but nothing i have ever done
would prepare me to join you

I'll just be here waiting
and i hope you find me up to snuff
I'll understand if i don't make it
it would be sensible enough

poesy 2.0

2007-04-16T03:18:46Z

http://youtube.com/profile?user=blahquabats

movin' on up...

i am a meta-head

2007-02-06T08:35:18Z

[A double-long... I read the first half in the first round, and the second in the second. Probably didn't help the whole thing too much. Read for KPP Semi-Finals, Feb 5, 2007.]

what if there was really nothing?
wouldn’t that be fuckin rad?
what fun, what freedom, with no dichotomy of good or bad
an empty mind, an empty soul, waiting to be filled, to be made whole
with your choice of ingredients and your style of preparation
and leaving all sorts of room for innovation!
how fuckin awesome would THAT be?

so carpe diem, seize the day!
don’t let the moment slip away!
your life is yours to live, you know!
go, be happy! go, man, go!

oh, me, you ask? why aren’t I?
well I’ll just keep an eye on things here
I mean no sense in leaving stuff all untended
and there are corners to clean, floors to be mended.

no, no, but thank you, I’ll just remain home
I’ll wipe down the glasses and watch tv. alone.
and I’ll refresh my inbox and check facebook once more.
I don’t need to go hiking; I’ll take the virtual tour.

yes, you all go out now and have a great time.
I’ll be okay here, yes, I’ll be just fine.
I don’t mind at all! it’s really quite nice
to stay home and.. you know, it’s really.. quite… nice.

(god dammit, he said,
now I start up again
realizing something halfway through
realizing that life would be better with you
noticing in such a way as to spark empathy
that my thoughts are not working to make me happy
and then I can have some great inspiration
some universal truth which sates aspiration
an epiphany which I have had thrice before
but from which I have always discarded the core
I kept all the skin, reassembled it there,
and then glanced at it daily, made others aware
of just how impressive, how stable I was
after having found this theory of existence or love
but it really just sat there, slowly imploding
and I no longer sailed but was merely floating
pointing it out to those who would listen
“look, how exciting! it glows and it glistens!
please, come and share it! I offer it up
to you and your friends and … anyone…”
and then I took a look back and my theoretical fruit,
my baby, my pride, my cerebral loot
was nothing but crumpled-up, crusty, and dry
and I looked at my shoes and I said “well. I tried.”

[arbitrary break]

so I went out again in search of another
and I found one and two and three and then
I started to tell myself fabrications again
“oh my dear fruit,” I said as I disemboweled my newest prize.
“Oh you’re so cute, I’ll just take you home and everyone will see with their own eyes
that I am successful at this
that I can find my own way
I don’t need old books or a mind-blowing stay
at a villa in Spain where I’m completely alone
and can think back on life without tv or phone.
I came up with you, and all on my own!”
and just as I said this, I fell on the ground
and drew my knees closer
my arms around my head
and a deep, trembling sigh [cut for time]

oh man, I thought, I’m doing this wrong
I’m losing the game, ruining the song
something is awry with the way that I’m working
something is always quietly lurking
and I am not sufficiently strong
I have been ignoring it all along
instead of preparing for this inevitable day
I have been vapidly waving it away.

“oh god,” I thought, and I curled up tighter
“perhaps if I wait enough the day will be brighter…”

and slowly it was, and I untied myself
and washed off my face and I said “you know what?”
“fuck you, inability to comprehend life!
fuck you, and your mother, and your kids and your wife!”
And I schemed a short while, came up with a hook
and a for a brief time I admired the plot I had cooked.
if I cannnot defeat the demons I fear
I can simply admit them! to a crowded theater!
and once I have been oh so brutally honest
and been open and said something that makes people nod
it will not matter that I have done nothing
that I have gone nowhere from where I began.
I’m running in place, but as far as they care,
I just won the race! I’m meeting the mayor!
ah yes I have cracked the inimitable code
I have discovered fusion, I have hit the motherlode!
by being relentless in being aware
of myself and my thoughts and my various cares
I will score points with everyone! touchdown! go team!
the girls, they will flock to a studmuffin like me [I managed to forget all of this. oops]

now all I need is an engaging beginning
something triumphant? some quip about winning?
no, too cliché, too in-your-face positive
something intriguing… something more… causative
nihilism! oh totally, nothingness is great
I can be all gung ho about not having a fate!
and then I can turn it from that into this
and further cement my future of bliss!
Amazing, Alex, you’ve done it again.
You’ve taken a pencil and called it a pen!
you’ve shown that boys can pretend to be men!
you’ve successfully wasted all your brainpower
learning not to escape, but more successfully cower.

chikka-bow

2007-02-05T08:37:38Z

[Remember, these are meant to be spoken, not read. Performed and thereby retired Feb 4, 2007, for the first night of KPP.]

logic is a state of mind
behind which we cannot survive
we strive to make it all make sense
but there is nothing.

there is no reason to reason
no proof of proof
and i just can't stop thinking about how i'm always thinking about thinking how i'm thinking about thinking of my thoughts.
in what way can i learn? in what way can i know?
if everything that i believe says i can't do so?
if i am so inconstant and my knowledge such a lie
then what keeps me from laying down and just waiting--

i live within a logic, i can't escape its grasp
i live by applying it like venom from an asp
tainting all reality and blah blah blah blah blah

but what good does THIS do me?

I find myself arguing against my method of argument
and feeling like my feelings are wrong
If I can escape this,
if can go free
yes, perhaps I can try to objectively see

What I need is a hurricane
a tsunami of sorts
where semantics and reason are dashed into bits

I must create a maelstrom
of unsensibility
to get any freedom in my grubby mitts.

So I’m telling you now that I am not speaking!
And that what I assert is a lie!
There is no language
there is no sound
there is no life and no reason why.

there is no “there”
I can now smell the past
I am not here
there are four lights
and I can look forward to my birthing at last.

…

It didn’t work.
I’m still stuck here
With all of you people
and ravaged with fear

logic is my monarch
and if I wish a coup
I will need a greater power
to tell me what to do

nothing has approached me
or made itself quite clear
and I don’t know where to look
but I know I can’t stay here.

logic is my monarch…
or is that quite true?
is it simply something I said
to endear myself to you?

is reason something from within
which has been nurtured so
that every other kind of thought
is cut out from the show?

Empiricism, rationale…
They’re comfy, like an old green couch
smelly sometimes, sunken always
but so familiar.

a known quantity is my worse enemy
something I accept because it’s there
maybe it’s subpar, or just plain crappy
but that shit’ll never surprise me. [This wasn't actually read, so it's no longer part of the poem]

I think we know where this is going
so come on, let’s get in the car.
We’re going to the Brain Ikea

I need a new couch.

------

information information information overload
when I’m walking when I’m sleeping when I’m driving on the road

holy shit my mind is lit
with names and brands and what to drink

implying that i’m lying
to myself if I try to think

I can’t believe in all my thoughts
I cannot trust in what I dream
I know not of what I speak
but am to scared to even scream

there are more dimensions than three
more axes than x y z
I know this cause I feel them all
piercing stabbing stretching pulling eating loving nudging mulling falling acting feigning changing everything I ever knew

telling me that I’m not true
on every side I am besotten
by memories and lies forgotten
haunting now that they are free
making fools of you to me
constantly reliving anger
forever stuck in mental danger
why can I not flee the scene
why must I be thin and lean
why don’t we just get along
why do I know every song

information emanations fill the nations of the world

there is a something
there is a nothing
I cannot explain
language is a lie
brain is under pressure
thoughts are self-enclosing
the brainship that I’m helming
is always underwhelming
clear water is a luxury dearly to be sought
I’m sailing over icebergs now, the wood’s begun to rot
the journey’s kinda shaky and the goal is long forgot
and I cannot be sleepy now I’ve lost the train of thought
on which I would have slept all night
in a small but comfy cot
now though I have nothing but
adrenaline, and not a lot

whirling swirling bicep curling
for the purposes of what
I cannot defeat my life
I cannot control my stance
i cannot explain my thoughts
nor why they seem to love this dance
of back and forth and up and down and in and out and

I cannot.

I can. not.
I can not. I can now. I can whenever I please
I can fish and I can coffee and I can seven types of cheese

I can do what I believe
and I can trust in what I am
even now I’m doing it here
even then I had no fear
later on I’ll take a chance
earlier I put on pants
how can thinking make it so
if nothing’s good or bad?
where would all my thoughts of thoughts have come from
how could I have stayed alive
when could I have been all anxious
why would I have learned to drive
who would I have ever talked to
what would I have done, in short
if nothing were remotely good or true and I could not believe in you

you hold the answer
you are what is true
and I’m going to find you out
if it’s the last damn thing I do