One Fine Day

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Habanera wisen, die ire Filling die
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Inner thrills that is sung in
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Script like with other pens.
In man’s life is or so gross

We cement ego for in Zest

Southern day beginning to presume him alas

See Kentucky beginning to see time.

The Thin Flow

The sun came up

The water went down

And I took

A hard look around

Then, I saw him lyin’ there

Couldn’t believe what I saw

He was looking …50 miles offshore

And then he says



Son, just step away

From your mind

Look in the water

And far behind


I look down the beach

Towards the glistening sand

I seen the most beautiful girl

And she happened to be so grand

I thought to myself About what the old man said

And I couldn’t manage to

Get it out of my head


Son, just step away

From your mind

Look in the water

And far behind



I look to my left

My girl to my right

I was thinking

It’s going to be a long night

And what should I do with my life

Should I just get up and go

Instead, stayin here

I’ll take control



Son just step away

From your mind

Look in the water

And far behind

This Morning Was Nice

Today was a good day
Slept really well
Spread out the butter

Toast cooks brilliantly
Not time yet to bathe
Look

Television is on
Scan and run down
Outside the window

Squirrels nestle tightly in pairs
Remaining still
No time to glide

Walk out of the door
Sky smells wonderful
Stay tuned

Filled to the brim
No more bites
Work hears me coming.

Tainted Nature

As I look out to the lake I realize what I have done. I have taken my own life along with others. By others I mean I took my pride and others have come along with that.

The lake is so peaceful, very morbid. Life is a lot like a lake. At times, the lake can be wild and very bumpy like when being skied on or being occupied by boats. Then, at night when there is nobody on they’re besides maybe the teenagers hanging out in the water at night skinny-dipping. Other than that, the lake can be very placid and quiet.

The lake is also a lot like me. It can give and take lives. Water can help some plants grow and to provide a fun lifestyle for people of all ages, but it can also be a conductor for drowning victims.

The lake sits here quiet, bluish-green and flowing towards one side. It lays so smooth that it looks as if you could skip a rock on it for days.

The fish swim in the beautiful water day and night providing fishermen with something to do. It’s just another version of the water helping take a life or give life.

The fish are born in this water and provide for different life cycles in the depths of this blue body. On the other, hand it is a fishermen’s play ground. Sometimes a fisherman will throw it back, but many take it and eat it including myself. That would be thrown into the category of ending a life.

The night sky lies over the water and as I look into the endless lake I see beauty and life. The orange and blue sky seem to just go as long and the two bodies seem to connect to make this amazing ore that really makes one think about life and happiness throughout this crazy world.

Around the lake there seems to be green life in itself. In the murkier parts of the lake by the brim their lies cat tails and algae filled leaves. The frogs fling their sticky tongues towards the sky catching the lightning bugs. It looks as if the frogs are turning off a light in the sky or stealing a shooting star when they do this. Willow trees and long lawns off the lake houses sit freshly cut and taken care of well.

All the fresh smells of nature make me realize that life is important and everything is beautiful in its own right. So, whatever I have down and why I executed is coming back to sit in my stomach like a 30 pound hot rock and make me sick to it.

Rebuttal

You had your chance, you threw it all away
I need a break, was the right word to say

I found someone new, He’s better than you
I should have known, That’s the truth

I should have seen the signs, Of slowly drifting too
To the arms of another man, Wrapped around you

But your in luck, I’m actually ok
I am a lone rider, And this is what I say


Go Ahead! You devil woman, Get out of my life
I can go on my own, And find a new wife


You played me like a fool, I fell for it too,
The first major sign, That we fell through

Was when I looked at in that way,
And I didn’t even know what to say

I thought we had something, For a moment, this was true
Love was the first thing, that I got from you

But I want to thank you, Each and everyday
Because I don’t need you, And this is what I say

Don't Do As Others, Do As You

ree…….forming…….fools…….fall…….from…….facilities.

Faith…….from…….fools…….falls…….freely…….for…….fun.

Be…….bountiul…….because…….boys…….bout…….breathlessly

Become…….beautiful…….back…….before……..boredom

I…….I…….interchange…….initial…….inter-scopes…….inside

I…….I…….interfere…….internally…….I…….inform

Where…….we…….went…….was…….wild

Where…….we…….were…….was……..worthy

Don’t…….do…….as…….others

Do…….as…….you

Flying High

Flying so high above the clouds, it feels as if I can never come down from this magnificent heaven. If I fly high enough, can I reach it? On the other hand, why would I want to pass up that beautiful landscape down there? God has really has his work cut out for him in making something so astonishing.
The grass is a beautiful green and looks like a flowing river of color as I fly over it because of the swift speed that I’m traveling at. Also the trees almost look like, they should be part of the of the landscape, like when they were just sprouts. The leaves blend in with the grass at an overhead view. The only thing separating it is the brown of the dirt and wood.
Everything is just in unison with each other. Each piece of nature feeds off of each other like a parasite off of its host. Like a leach ,who just cant get that last drop of blood out of its delicious body that it’s been intertwined with. My eyes are the same way with the earth, the colors of nature all coming together in one to form the stunning harmony that should never be messed with or ever harmed.
The animals know that nature is the most beautiful object in the world. The scenery cannot be duplicated, especially this one. As I fly over this amazing sight I will always remember this moment as long as I live.

Berkeley In The Sixties

Berkley in the sixties was a time of change, of wonder, revolution, art, music, and free- speech, among many other things. Important figures, such as Mario Savio, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Allen Ginsberg helped lead a movement that changed the history of our country for years to come. To fully dissect the situation of Berkeley in the sixties it will take observation of literary evidence and film footage. Although these pieces of footage are what is needed in present day to piece together the times during that era, it is safe to say that the activism still remains an important issue today.
The first issue you is the role of government in all the activism. To find a central understanding a more civil way could have come from their style of handling things. The government decided to use force, in which to succumb to the activists. The use of democracy could have been put to an honest effect in considerable fashion. Take the civil rights movement for example. The blacks were technically free, but oppressed. It is agreeable that everybody has the own rights, which includes refusing to sell to certain customers, but it’s human decency. If a law-abiding citizen comes into the store willing to purchase food, then they should have that right. Others did not think similarly. Dating back to the times of slavery, blacks were seen as savage people and less than an actual human. If a black American is allowed to attend school and succeed, then shouldn’t it be fair to allow them fair treatment throughout other characteristics of society?
A second issue is the role of the activists during the sixties. Martin Luther King Jr. stated, “We learned to swim the sea like fish, but we can’t learn to walk the earth as brothers and sister.” In other words, we learned as creatures to work together when forming as organisms, but now we can’t as different looking individuals. Ironic, that the civil rights movement, provided a political baptism with the hoses, which provided for public violence. Activists want to bring peace and equality into the sociopolitical order, but yet, students of Berkley feeling oppressed, surrounded a car a flipped it, on numerous occasions. Is this peaceful thinking? Does this spread equality? Activists are at fault for drawing, and inflicting, public violence to get there point across and the abolitionists from groups, such as the government and Operation Abolition should find a happier medium than striking these activists with high powered water hoses and splinter bound wooden Billy clubs. A simple form of peaceful thinking and discussion in a court room or something of a related matter settled this. Though it may take some extreme give from each wing. Both the left and the right wing, swallowing their pride, could have found a just equilibrium.

Do's, Will's, Should's

Should I be a teacher when I graduate?
Should I go for my Master’s?
Do I have enough money?
Do kids like change instead of candy for Halloween?
Will I have kids?
Will I get married?
Should I get a house?
Should I settle down?
Do I look like a guy who settles down?
Do you want to go to this party?
Will I talk to that girl?
Will she even like me for me?
Should I mingle with the crowd instead?
Should I think so much?
Do you think that girl likes me?
Do you think she looks like an alien from halo?
Will I study abroad?
Will I visit Europe?
Should I just live my life?
Should I ditch my girlfriend?
Do I want to work 40 hours a week?
Do job opportunities come with my major?
Will I keep my sanity with work?
Will I keep my sanity with her?
Should I rethink my life?
Should I just, live?

Stuck Inside These Walls

Stuck inside these walls again
Nobody’s gonna win this fight
When the boys come tumbling in
Nobody’s gonna treat her right

She’s looking for Mr. Right
Somebody to call her own
When he’s wished away
She makes her way back home

Chorus:
She’s stuck inside these walls again
Looking for a way out
When she’s with him
She’s in constant doubt
As she sails along
Deep into a mood
She knows change
Wont happen to soon

She has a sense of loneliness
floating on her mind
If you don’t let it through
It’ll get you every time

Just be patient, don’t let it bother you
It will come soon
You’ll have your time to shine
Just listen to my tune

Chorus

Listen to me baby
Don’t choke on every word
If you follow down the path
You’re bound to get hurt

Steer clear of the problems
You feel inside
Look on through the temptations
Triggering your mind

Haunting Father

Steve Zwilling Series of Unfortunate Events

“Go to bed, Jonathan! And I’m not going to tell you again!” slurs the mother, fresh off of her silly drunken slumber. Jonathan decides to stay up, seeing as it is only 6:30pm, guessing she would just crash ‘n’ burn into another deep intoxicated sleep soon.
The mother is not always like this. She developed this drinking problem around the time her husband died. She used to be a happy, loyal housewife that devoted her whole life to her husband. She was also a beautiful, petite woman with big blue eyes and long blonde hair.
Then, it happened. It was about 3 years ago today that her husband died. She remembers the day like it was yesterday.

The phone starts to ring at about 4pm which is usually the time her husband made his way home and sometimes he calls to see if he needs to pick any groceries up for dinner, so when the phone rings she sprints to the phone, like she is racing somebody to it.
Out of breathe and sighing with every word she speaks like a young asthma patient having an attack.
“Hello?” she says excited, yet worn-out.
“Mrs. Taylor, this is Mr. Burns from Burns Steel,” he says
“What is it, sir? Is there something wrong.” She says also concerned.
“Well Mrs. Taylor I don’t know how to say this, but…. ugh…” he chokes up momentarily, “Well, Mrs. Taylor its about your husband. He—He died in an electrical fire. I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Taylor breaks into tears and calls her son Jonathan downstairs. The phone dropped to the floor as if she spikes it purposely. It bounces off the floor into three different, cream- colored pieces.
When Jonathan hears this he ran quicker than he usually came when his mom called him. He slips on his Tasmanian devil slippers with the hole in the right foot making the devil look like he got his eye ripped out and makes his way down the solid, oak staircase.
“What’s wrong momma?” Jonathan says.
“Honey, your father isn’t coming home for awhile,” Mrs. Taylor says sobbing, barely getting the sentence out.
“What do you mean momma?” he says alarmed.
“Well honey, there was an accident at work and he didn’t make it,” she says.


“Go next door and have Mr. Wilson buy me a pint of Brandi’s.” Mrs. Taylor says to her son as she chokes on a cigarette. She just started and she hacks as if she has too much phlegm clogging her throat passage.
Jonathan makes his way to school and he runs into his principal.
“Get to class Mr. Taylor or you have a detention this afternoon.” Mr. Jones says so nonchalantly.
Mr. Jones is a bigger man that looks as if he has eaten breakfast, lunch, dinner, and then did over again everyday his whole life. He has a comb over and he wears knickers and penny loafers along with his suede vest and tie. He also sweats more than any normal human being.
Like, an honest student Jonathan makes his way around the corner to his class until he is out of Mr. Jones’ sight and then he dashes for the bathroom. Then, BAM! He runs clean into something in the hallway, but there is not a thing there. There is not a locker, a person, or even a drinking fountain. It is just like oxygen solidified for that brief moment. The hallway is like any other hallway in a school. It was filled with different color squares inside of a blue border to the sides of the hall. It smelled as if it was freshly waxed although it was caked with dust and dirt. So, generally it was very dry so he couldn’t have slipped on the floor.
Confused, he gets up, brushes himself off, and then makes his way into the bathroom, thinking what that could have been that left him flat on his ass.
When he gets into the bathroom. He walks up to the second urinal of four, pulles his pants down, and began to do his deed. When Jonathan’s done, He turns around and again BAM! It happened again! He hit something that makes him fall right towards the ground. He fell right into the urinal this time though, soaking his butt from the bottom to his belt line.
“God damnit!” he says in a rage, “What the fuck is that and how the fuck does it keep knocking me over?”
Seeing as he was already late he sits still in the bathroom for the duration of time until his pants dry, reading the writing on the stall walls. “John loves Jane 4E,” and “H.G, 4-5-07,” he reads the writing in the stall he was waiting in.
He washes his hands and looks into the mirror to see if his hair was ok. Jonathan has this dirty blonde kind of hair that really bothers him because it is awfully curly so he tries to use gel to mat it down. Unfortunately, the gel never works correctly, so he has to keep up on the matting. Behind him the stall doors start to move interchangeably, but he is the only present in the lavatory. It’s like when crept through the bathroom moving these stall doors.


“What the hell happened?” Mrs. Taylor thought to herself, “Where in the fuck is Johnny with my damn pint?”
Then, she realizes he is at school. He was always a good kid. Very independent and has his head on straight. She is very proud of him. On the other hand, he doesn’t listen to her when she needs him to do something.
“Well I guess I’ll just go get it myself,” she thought.
“Shit, where are my car keys?” she says rifling through her pockets and found them in her coat.
“Ah, here they are.”
When she steps out of the house she hits something and falls down abruptly. Still drunk from the night before, it takes her awhile to gather herself enough to get up.
“What the fuck?” she mutters and looking around, but there is nothing there. It is like she hit a huge invisible wall that is made out of pure steel. So, she continues down the blue-painted wooden steps that sits in front of the porch like old dried up pieces of plywood that would break if stepped on wrong.
She pulls out of the driveway and notices all the buses. This meant she observing that Johnny should be on his way home from school. In a daze, she continues down the road to the liquor store on the corner. It goes by the name of Bob’s Beer House. Ironically, named this because they have the slimmest selection of beer in town. As she walks in the store, she is looking at all the kids passing and disappointed in herself because she wonders if her drinking has an effect on Johnny since the passing of his father.
Johnny always seemed irritated and quiet with his mother. She, although in her drunken state, still realized when something was bothering her son. Mr. Taylor was a big part of Jonathan’s life and still is, even after his passing.
She asked for her 8-dollar pint of Brandi’s and jingled through the change in her pockets like she was trying to make a bizarre melody with the coins and finds some dollar bills at the bottom.
“Here you go.” she said. Then, she makes her way to the front door.
Before she got to the door a wild man barrels in bearing a gun in his left hand.
“Give me the god damn money and you get down!” he shouts very demandingly, “No, fucking around lets go! Lets go! Lets go!”
Willingly the cashier did it and threw him the bag of money. Quickly, the man runs away and right before he hit the front door he just falls backwards. It looked as if he slammed into the window on the door or an invisible wall, like she had earlier.
“What the fuck?” said the Robber.
He gets up quickly brushes himself off and continues to the door. As he gets there, he runs to his car and starts it. Right as he pulls away, he has to swerve around her car because she didn’t park to respectable in front of the store. My front end is sticking out into the street and kids on their bikes have to keep going around it. The car looked as if she cut the wheel way to early while parallel parking and just satisfied herself with that.
All of a sudden, outside there is an atrocious sound of screeching tires and busting glass.
“O shit! Shit, shit, shit!” yells the robber as he jumps around his open door.
As she runs out she sees a bike twisted up under the car and the feet of a child lying motionless on the ground sticking out in front of the car. She makes her way over there to see if there is something she can do. When she gets there she couldn’t believe her eyes. It is her beautiful baby boy. Johnny lay there motionless on the ground. “Speak to me honey, speak to me!” she says crying, kneeling to his side. “Not another one! God please no.”

A sound of loud sirens and heavy-duty engines comes barreling around the corner. It was an ambulance and a fire engine. The fire engine is from the local firehouse engine 45. The lights were reflecting off the car along with the sun. it was almost blinding to look at. The puddle of blood the boy lays in is also a heavy conductor of the reflection of the lights.
The paramedics and firemen came out and asks questions and tends to the boy. Speaking his name trying to get his attention
“Hey, Buddy, Hey!” says the firemen, but there was no response.
He turns to Mrs. Taylor and asks “Whats his name?”
“His name is Jonathan, It- It’s Jonathan,” she said in a quivering voice.
The fireman continues to yell his name, but there is no response and so they try C.P.R and to revive him.
The paramedic’s pump on the kids chest, as if they are trying to collapse his rib cage, he was a rather large boy so this is required. After several failed attempts, the paramedic gets up with a stern look on his face, wipes the sweat from his brow, and signals the fireman to come over.
Mrs. Taylor stands in the arms of a stranger who trying to comfort her, nervous as a mother would or should be. She is trembling and sweat is beading down her face like rain drops on a windowpane.
“Is he alright? Sir?,” she said.
The paramedic looks at her walks a rather significant distance and then looks away and announces:
“Time of death, 3:35pm.”
Mrs. Taylor drops to her knees as if she is purposely trying to shatter them and starting mourning for Jonathan. She looks at him lying there and decides to crawl over to him. She looks like she is an infant who can’t walk yet. When she does get to him she holds him with blood all over her body from his. She rubs her red stained hands through his hair.
“It’s ok baby, It’s ok, momma is here,” she said crying.
The professionals have to grab her and separate Jonathan from her, which is like pulling a leg from a bear trap. She held on to him as tight as she could and continued to yell at the top of her lungs in bereavement.
The paramedics put him into the body bag and go through with the necessary procedures. Then, they continued to express their regards to Mrs. Taylor and go on their way and Mrs. Taylor lies in a puddle of her son’s blood, weeping in her own sorrows while strangers are caring for her. She looks up as if something called to her and sees a shadow-like, figure following the back of the truck as it pulls away.

“The funeral was nice,” said Mrs. Taylor’s sister, Penelope, while sitting in the car after Jonathan’s funeral.
“Yes, it was,” states Mrs. Taylor.
Penelope’s car sits running in the driveway of The Taylor house and she continues to tell her sister, if she needs anything to call her as soon as possible. Mrs. Taylor expresses that she will be all right for now, but she thanks her for the offer. Penelope drive’s away leaving Mrs. Taylor alone to walk up to her vacant house. Without a son or a husband she feels alone in the world. She felt as if God is punishing her for something she did wrong in the past.
She looks at the dead grass in the front yard as she walks up the driveway. The grass sits so yellow and brown. It looks as if death himself came up and draped his cold lifeless hand across the top of it.
“This is awful looking,” she says disgusted.
Then, she walks up the same tattered wooden steps as before and has the similar thoughts as before. When she gets into the house she feels the vacant nature of the house. Feeling hungry she makes her way into the kitchen and proceeds to make dinner for herself. She pulls out some chicken and throws some corn into a pot on the oven. Then, she continues to pull a pint of Brandi’s out of the freezer and continues to pour that into a glass that she pulled from the cupboard. The cupboard was filled with empty pints and dust that she has to maneuver around, just to get a glass.
When she turns she saw an image appear in front of her face, but then in a flash it whisked its way on up through the ceiling. Nervous, she runs into the living room and grabs a barbecue scour that lies in front of the fireplace. The scour was long and black with a sharp end.
The figure that showed up in front of her looked like a floating black shadow that just has more detail to it. It looked as if a man outlines himself in black and pulled all the rest of his body off and continued to move around like that successfully.
“What the fuck is that?” she says scared for her life.
Upstairs there is a violent crash. It’s sounds as if there is somebody up in the bedroom throwing objects in the room around or that there is some kind of party and people are crashing. Interested and nervous at the same time Mrs. Taylor slowly creeps up the steps making sure not to be heard. She finally gets to the room and calls out the first thing that came to mind. Immediately regretting her decision.
“Hello?” she said, “Is anybody there?”
When she got fully into the room the door slams shut and there stands a figure. The figure like downstairs, but in more detail because she stands closer.
“Who-Who are you?” she says quivering in fear.
The spirit than forms to a vibrant bluish glow and the image of her husband came to be in front of her. He looked as if he just got back from a wedding or a proper event. He is young and dressed up in a suit. His hair is slicked back with the grease he used so much when he was alive and he had a smile that went on for days.
“Hello, honey,” he says, “How are you?”
She stands in shock not saying a word and Mr. Taylor begins to laugh.
“Now, come on now, honey it’s me.”
“No, No it cant be,” she said confused, “Your dead.”
“Yes, Yes I am, sweetheart, but that’s no reason to be scared,” he said laughing still.
He walks up to her as if he were a real person. There was no floating or hovering like a typical ghost stereotype. He walked up to her like a normal person of the flesh.
“Now, listen to me baby,” he says, “Jonathan is alright. He is with me now. We needed him up here and he fits right in and he’s happy. Do not worry about him.”
“How can I not worry about him? He is my baby--.” She says quickly and upset.
“Shh, Shh, don’t over work yourself. I got him up here,” Mr. Taylor says smiling.”
He hugs her and holds her as she cries into his suit that he is wearing. She hugs him back so hard, but loving at the same time. She missed him so much it hurt her to even live another day without him.
“I tried to prevent you from problems baby,” he says
“What do you mean?” she questions him.
“Do you remember when you ran into something before you went to the store?” he says.
“Yes-“ she says confused
“Well that was I. I was trying to prevent you from trouble, but there is only so much I can do at one time,” he says, “I cannot fully prevent you because I will be messing with the scheme of things. However, there are some loopholes that I found, but I can only get in your way, not fully stop you. I did it to Johnny too”
“What did you need to do these things for?” She asked him.
“Well baby, the way you guys were living your life was inappropriate and appalling,” he said concerned, “That was the only way I could stop you guys from going down the wrong path. You were making Johnny unhappy and ruining yourself. I just had to but in and try to keep you from walking into bad situations.”
“Well, why didn’t you help Johnny then?” she questioned him.
“Because it was his time baby,” he said, “I hate to say it, but it was. You were supposed be coming too, but I prevented it. When that robber ran into something in the store that was I. His intentions were to turn around and shoot you and the clerk, but I threw his mind off by getting in his way.
“Well, I still don’t understand why you didn’t help Johnny!” she said very upset.
“Sweetheart, I tried, but he was hit before I could get to him. It just didn’t work out in our favor, but it’s time for me to go. I love you.”
He began to disappear into the shadows and then Mrs. Taylor began to yell.
“No! No! NO!” she screams.
Then, she hears his voice, but could not see her husband. It sounded as if he was on a stereo system talking to her from a higher altitude.
“It’s ok baby, I will see you soon enough,” he sas to her confidently, “Live happy for me.”

Unfair Chromosones

Torn to smithereens,

by a misogynistic swine

She rumbles through the streets of Brooklyn,

feeling the eyes of every flesh colored human,

Within the outlooks, under the divine sky.

She comes to a loading dock where more men

Hoot and holler at her womanly physique

“Can I get some of that sweet ass?”

No money

No Coat

Sandy Feet

Decked out in her waitress uniform,

she looks like a stewardess, fancied with an apron

Muddy water splashes her face as a horse carriage passes

with a newly married couple.

James Brown screams, “It’s a Man’s World” on the radio,

she starts to believe it.

The Euphoric Flower

As the young man walked flawlessly and aimlessly into the mist he couldn’t help but notice an interesting plant that had a wild, but distinctive glow.
He walked up to the plant and took a long, hard look at it and realized it had a bulging bass that the majority of the glow was consolidated at.
“This is like nothing, I have ever seen before,” he said. Then, he continued to look around embarrassed. Dissecting the plant by picking it with a hard stick he snapped off a deciduous tree that rested above his head. A pungent juice came out filling the air around him with sparkling objects and glitter like objects. He didn’t seem to have an idea what to do.
He consumed the heavy fumes that irradiated the air and felt his body come to a euphoric float. Tingling feelings, loss of senses, aimless wondering; he didn’t know what to do with himself. He has never felt anything like this before. The plants mystically aroma helped enhance all of the man’s inner feelings.
His brain was racing with ideas. His body felt like he couldn’t be harmed. Everything in the area was amazing and beautiful. He was on cloud nine and some.
As he walked down the long lonely road a group of dancing gnomes jumped out at him dancing. Behind them were, flowing colors and vibrant patterns that seemed to chase there every movement.
The gnomes sang a song as they pounced around the road. It was a unique sound that filled his head with laughter and consfusion. It sounded as if a symphony orchestra was playing in fast forward, but in key. The words they were repeating were loud and mystical, “Ta Tomda Ta Da Do.”
Continuing down the road he sees the colors bounce of the trees. The feeling expressed is just an intense euphoric high, but more potent. He can actually feel the heart of nature mixing with his mind.
As he gets to a clearing, he notices there is a deep hole in the middle of these crossroads. He glances in the hole and he sees its filled with water. The water seems to be occupied by several distinct looking fish. Fish that he has never in his life observed with his own eyes. The fish were two different colors.
The first set of fish were of a darker red. It could be closely related to blood or cranberry juice. Where as the second set of fish were a light blue almost teal.
He couldn’t help, but stare at the fish and was amazed at what he saw. With a brush of curiosity he stuck his hands into the clear water and felt around hoping to grab one of the glowing beauties. Finally, after a draw period, he got a hold of one.
As he took the fish out of the water, the man heard words uttered, which caused him to stand still. Iinstintcively, he looked around the road and saw nobody. It was just him nestleiing the fish in his fingers. The man felt a vibration the the fish, so he looked down and noticed that was where the faint sound of words was coming from.
Startled, his eyes grew wider and his body remained still. He listened to the fish closely, “9” said the fish. Confused, the man went to set the fish back into the water, but the fish transformed into blood in his hands.
Nervous because of a childhood fear of blood, the man hurried to wash the blood off in the water. So he buried his hands into the water and rinsed the blood off, but then felt a bite on his finger. It was not painful, but it was startling so he pulled his finger out of the water and he had a blue fish stuck on it. He gently grabbed the blue fish off his finger and placed it into his hand. Again, the fish started speaking, “Second door.” Then, it vanished into thin air.
He gazed at his hands in amazement and trying piecing what just happened together. Remaining confused he just continued on down the lonlely road.

Watch What You Do!

At the tender age of ten
The boy strikes painfully to the floor
Father yelling, “Get up boy!”
But the boy lay there, as if there was no more

The boy turns eleven
On a Sunday afternoon
“You’re the definitive burden,”
The father throws his revolting shoes.

The boy leans into the closet
Moving t-shirts and jeans
He’s searching for happiness
Through a metal barrel covered in jeans

The boy loads the gun and
Barrels out of the wooden door
“I’ve had enough father,
Need I say more.”

The father takes a look and
Peaks to a laugh
But the problem he’s facing
Is that will be his last

The boy fires the bullet
Through the old man’s chest
“How do you like me now!”
He says with the gun just above his breathe

“That will teach you to strike me or haze me”
All you had to do was hug me and behave with me
Watch what you do for the time now
It could be the last, last in the town.

Goodbye

Goodbye to my childhood dream of being a professional hockey player- hockey photo
Goodbye to my first girlfriend-
Goodbye to my first day of elementary school- draw a bobcat
Goodbye to my first day of middle school- draw a panther

Goodbye to my first kiss-
Goodbye to my first sexual experience-
Goodbye to my first day of high school- draw jaguar
Goodbye to my innocent liver- draw liver and beer bottle

Goodbye to my tender lungs- draw pack of cigarettes
Goodbye to hockey- picture of high hockey photo
Goodbye to my first serious girlfriend-
Goodbye virginity- Draw Dove and Lily

Goodbye heartbreak- draw breaking heart
Goodbye to my first day of college- Something Eastern
Goodbye to friends I will never see again- bus driving away
Goodbye to on-off dating

Goodbye to living in fear
Goodbye to indecisiveness
Goodbye to boredom
Goodbye to college peculiarly achieve

Hello Life, I’m ready for you now.

Floyd Song

Softly floating through your eyes ending in a paper cup, where the water settles calm and cold.

The wind takes your soul deep beyond a barriers break, helping to chance the risk one will take.

As the fire breathes deep from a morning sun, plunged warmly through the silence of ones mind.

I can’t seem to break the silence of the woman whose heart take’s the chance of shaping a new mold.

As the time drift’s about the world looking for a prodigal son to match the love the two once shared.

Where the wish is granted when you were here, when a man just sat and stared, holding nothing, but fear

As the sirens sing languidly to Odysseus and the boat full of men, they crash, with such force into the stones

The men stare up at the sirens realizing the faithful love they had was deflected into something so bad

Love can be of the earliest inconvenience, but to the true lovers of the day, the kids were lucky in love

Now where do these days go? Where do the tears go? Should I get a boat? Should I love again? The river we call love never ends.

But for now I will not be a slave to this undeniable temptation, instead I will rise above and accept redemption

For I have won, I have overcome, and I lived through the days, I’m done, I’m vacant, Get a witness because I am vanished.

Dear Friend (endless)

Dear Friend,

Have you ever just gone for a walk? I mean, have you ever just got up and said to you, “I need to go for a fucking walk.” Well I recently did that. There is nothing more gratifying than blowing off some steam. Certain people have ways of blowing off steam that would detrimentally abuse the mind of a normal coherent individual, but me, I just go for walks.
No matter where I go, I try to walk off any inner anguish that I uphold in my inferior little mind. I went for a walk when I was at work. I work at a hospital for children. Children are the cauldrons of our world, you would think they would keep a little more upkeep going, but of course, that ceases to exist. As I walk delicately through the halls, as I work the midnight shift, I notice the color of the paint on the walls. The walls are this pale ale baby blue that screams out horrible tones that scare me, let alone a young child. I could see the walls reverberating with sounds of crying or inner angst of a horrific shot with a hypodermic needle. It really is that bad. Not to mention, the floors of the hospital look like a cockroach playground. As I yawn covering my mouth, so I do not spread germs, but I am really most introverted from this task because I do not want to test the waters of what might come in.
Like Red Jesus of Nazareth, a doctor springs from a side-paneled door that sits in the hallway at a 45-degree angle. He jumps out as if he is a clown trying to catch a young child to domesticate it. With his stringy black beard swaying in the wind and his red cloth scrubs begin to sponge up every little piece of body sweat, he dictates, “Hello son” “Hello sir” he continues, “Now son, Do you believe in God?” I was at a loss. I do believe there are some omnipotent beings, but not really the God. It is more like a God. The whole theological debate brings on a whole new part of my brain that I could like to keep philosophically repressed. Again, there is another reason for a walk.
Damnit, he kick-started the part of my brain that I wanted to refrain from, you fucking bastard, God, who the fuck is this God? I take ultimate pride in integrating the Origin of Species into my thought process. There is no way some being made people, the universe, the planets, the animals, the rainforest, and the smoky atmosphere that hits me in the face every time I go to a bar. It is just not plausible. I think the bible might even be an old folk tale that somebody decided to obsess over one day and resort to worshipping this book. Could it be? I gravely think so. Take the Lord of the Rings for example, it’s, in total, much longer then the actual bible, it holds stories, it holds poetry, hymns, and different creatures. Why can’t somebody worship that? I can make my own Hobbit religion that can form an omnipresent God that people 2000 years from now may get on their knees and pray to. Hopefully, it’s not a picture of me; I could not take that kind of pressure. What about Heaven and Hell? There is another walk within itself. I like to think that our bodies give back to the earth, which was made from the big bang theory because of the logical sense it makes. Heaven sounds like a five star resort you go to only if you have zero fun throughout your entire life because everything is a sin. Well you bastards, fuck you, I will be staring up from hell, smiling like the little demon child I become because I have fulfilled a logical, exciting life.
Back to walking, I recently found out that my girlfriend of 3 years cheated on me, but I didn’t even twitch a muscle. I told her to have a nice day and I hung up the phone. She sent me a voicemail saying that it was I and not she. I appreciate the avoidance of the cliché vice versa; she really gave it to me straight. Who knows? I probably just did not love her anymore. I mean when she sleeps, she sounds like a tow truck is backing over a hole filled with people, pumping methane gases into this hole, and everybody is struggling to breathe. Sometimes, I wanted to take chicken wire and just strangle her with it. This reminds me of the part in Night at the Roxbury when Steve Butabi, wanted to ram thick straws into his wife to be’s, brain. I did value her, I really did, She was the first love of my life, but you know what, love fades. When it comes down to the finish line, it’s all about you, there is an “I” in this team. That seems to be the mentality for many consoling citizens this day and age. What happened to the years where the women were happy staying home and men could get a respectful job right out of college? Your guess is as good as mine. Now women are poking around sleeping with any thing that walks, or crawls for that matter. For the women reading this, men are worse! I am not picking on you. Take what I said and add, some porno, a big screen television, and enough beer to kill a 10-ton elephant.
You would think that walking would make you tired, but when your mind is going, you are like a freight train going through sheets of glass. There may be some slight stops, but nothing to lose any motion over. My elders always talk of education being number one, whom unfortunately I agree, but not in the sense that they make it. There version of education is getting good grades and working your ass off to have the highest grade point average in the school, so you can put that pretty little report card on that fridge, but it does not work like that. It never works like that. Young adults go to school, so they can get a job because, unfortunately, this society requires that now. The apathetic idea of getting a job out of high school is extinct. There are very few jobs that one can hope on and make a decent living. Like, I said before it is not the 50’s anymore. This reminds me of J. D Salinger’s hit book, Catcher in the Rye, amazing book that downgrades the human psyche to a repressed child. The book is filled with melancholy quips followed remotely by conspicuous attitude changes by the protagonist. It was a little piece of 3-hour heaven. Why it reminds me of my point of education I do not know, but it does.

Hello Again, my close, close friend. I feel lonely in my life. I feel as if the world is closing tightly on my life like salt sealing up an open wound. Music is anything, but easy for me. I love music with all my heart, but when it comes to sticking with it, it seems impossible. I rely solely on the unreserved significance of my character to carry me through the difficult demons that spring in my life. I had a show last night and I was black- balled by somebody I thought was a friend. He said it was nothing personal, but he made it personal. I do not need the care of people who do not even console my inner feelings. I hope my loving cousin was not in on the egotistical debacle that ruined my Friday night and strangled my hopes for a tight knit wonder band, but that’s life, you win some and you lose some. The winter birds will fly into the night, whether the sun shines on their magnificent wings or the moon glares at that like God, looking in the eyes of an angel.
It is all right anyways; it is not my kind of music. I play folk and blues, I am old school rocker; Ray Lamontagne, Stevie Ray Vaughn, B.B King, they are the greats. Do not get me wrong, Steel Trap Mind rules and I was honored to be a part of the angelic choirs coming from the underground cave we called a practice space, but it is like the sirens of the sea. You hear the music and you cannot deny yourself from listening or being drawn to it. It is indeed the opiate of the masses counteracting itself swiftly into the psyche of my life.
Before I begin, I will describe my life on the moon. The moon is dark, lonely, and quiet, only the proud get to venture onto the moon with me. The moon is the resting place of the omnipotent Gods in which I imagine will significantly transgress any negative debacle thrown my way. The sun is in sight, but I am stuck in this Frio fifth war zone. The bottle shines into the sun like a kaleidoscope with the liquid of the saints. Saint Mercury looks at me with little to say. Well I concur sir, for you are just dragging me down with you. I see you have landed; welcome, I hope you enjoy yourself. The moon can be a quite fine place if you fung-schway some necessary details. What you will find is the mind of a mad man followed by a hollowed out shell. Now don’t be alarmed, I will not bite you or harvest your organs for beer money. I have more respect than that. You are invited into this brain that is ambiguous and up for interpretation. Collectively, the decision is all mine, but how do you know I am not suffering from dementia, or schizophrenia? Sybil looks like a walk in the park compared to me. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is a hop, skip, and a jump away from Candy Land. You are my sunshine, you are my earth, you are my darkness, you are my self worth, leave me to my thoughts because they will eat you alive with maximum intensity. I, again, concur. Welcome.
Love. Ah Love. Love is the clearly indefinable global emporium that everybody visits for the sheer thrill and leaves, man handled, by the utter stupidity that it brings. Love can pick you up off the ground and throw you into a world of neon colors and ruby red lips, but it can also throw you into a head first dive into a black hole that will stretch you apart and leave you breathless. Only a fool falls for love. Essentially, we are all fools. We are all hoodwinks. All we need is Love and that’s true. I am a fool. I am a fool for a girl that I Love dearly. I am a fool for a goddess that loves me back. She floats down to the earth with a grace that only few women have ever possessed in my eyes. Her lips are like soft breathes of fresh air touching every morsel for my flesh, leaving me in a daze that no physical force on earth could bare to break. Her body is carved from Helen herself; the beautiful sight of her curves and her subtle breasts that pierce through the air like R-40 torpedoes attacking a submarine. The hair shines blonde with the fierce attitude of an independent deity. She is almost a supernatural being to me. When I touch her, her piercing blue eyes that look through like medusa casting a spell debilitate me. I am interwoven in her metaphorical web with every faint breath she excretes from her illuminating red lips that glisten with an ore. I am a fool. I am a fool for this love. I am proud to be this fool. She is a fool too. A fool is also one with a marked propensity or fondness of something. I will be your fool, if you will be mine.
A skunk, a bulldog, a raccoon, a bishop, what do these all have in common? Well I will tell you. They are living beings, they are beautiful creatures put on this earth for a purpose. Everybody has a purpose. Not to the extent of following strictly Puritan beliefs. I do not agree with Jonathan Edwards, we do not hang by God’s hands until he decides to drop us. I hang by my own intuition and when I decide to fall I will fall. Again, I tricked you, trick statement, because I will not fall. I am the omnipresent sole integration of morals in my life. Any immorality will not void from my lips. My lips are sealed like the cold chains of a prisoner, in a holding sell after a bar room fight. I will over power any hate that is brought my way, for you will pay the pied piper if you believe otherwise. My purpose is this: I will live my life, I will love my soul-mate, I will love my interests, I will not rest till I am satisfied. Am I satisfied? Not yet, but I am just getting started. Look out world I am coming for you. I will take you by the love handles and shake every last good time for your flowery depths. Do it, I will.
It’s okay reader; do not take my depth personally. I come bearing gifts. I apologize for any mishaps that you may encounter. My life debacles and default princesses are part of the psyche that I like to introduce as my melancholy wonder world. Happiness is the soul for which humans assert to themselves. Now, do not drop your original plans, I have plenty to share. The rabbit is out of the cage, but I will be the owl, you need to be the owl to catch it, in case it gets out of hand. I am your prey and I am forever yours. The seasons change from dusk till dawn, but my notions will always linger into my busy fingers for your satisfaction.

I dipped my hands into the pool of the Gods today. I found the instant uproar that random leaves me perplexed. I love life at the moment; I have so much to look forward too. Sterling Anderson, an infamous television writer, came into my class Monday and gave some great advice, but one sticks out in particular, done. All I have to say is done. It may sound crazy, but it works. I hate my city and I hate some events of my life, but they are stepping-stones to a newer beginning. I was kicked from a band, in which I really did not indulge too much fun into. Some great times though. I felt like a weaning child trying to exist in a school of immortal patrons. The fountain of youth is only around the corner, people do not get older they get wiser, and with getting wiser means a smarter use of time. I need to spend my time writing, writing to you, writing to me, writing to anybody who wants to indulge in my lifestyle.
The hole is only as deep as you make it. I have friends who indulge in plenty of unnecessary substances. Aristotle believed substances are treated as attributes and modes or things. Well dependency becomes closely linked with substance. The cynical ideals from which substance abusers remain attracted to these “void filling wonders.” I just finished a book titled Candy by Luke Davies, who is a brilliant writer. He links the infirmity of love and addiction, and what dependency does to break this tie. At the end, the unnamed narrator always picks addiction over love, but there is only one way to interpret this dilemma. He loves his addiction.
The objectivity that comes with a substance abuser almost seems surreal or bizarre. Take for example, the drug heroin; this case of morphine can leave you high, but dry. The sublime initiation into a false world of carelessness can, and will, leave you in another separate world apart from reality, bull fighting with despair. Despair is such an extensive world, an extensive feeling. It just sounds like a boy losing his parents and falling into a life of crime and being caught with his misdoings and regretfully rotting in jail feeling ultimately lonely. He is feeling complete and utter despair. Why people love to feel these omnipresent mind-sets is almost catatonic to my mind. I cannot wrap my mind around the notion; it is almost as the way I think when I have had too much to drink. Like, trying to figure out a come back in a heated drunkard debate realizing your just fluff, a fake.
M.C Escher, very eccentric woman once said, “I don’t use drugs, my dreams are frightening enough.” I can relate to this with my own dreams. I have dabbled in my day, but have never built a dependency. My own thoughts provide a definitive mind fuck within myself. A crucial feeling from within me feels that these substantial “crutches” are just the works for a whole other set of problems, again to be hidden by drugs. If one can do drugs without relying on them to survive and get through the day, more power to you. If a man, can survive his life without being bothered by his deepest thoughts, somebody kiss the ground he walks on because he is the definitive alpha human.
I will share an experience of a person I knew. He was not to close to me, but he displays a set of actions that left me uncomfortable and melancholy. This man, who we will call, Popper, had a great job, engaged to a woman, great musician, has important goals, and pursues anything he sets his mind to. The only problem that Popper possess’ is his insatiable want for drugs. He will amount to 300 dollars per week in pills and if he feels really frisky, per day! Now that seems to be an unwanted problem for most people, but the sad thing is, it is the same for him, but he attained a dependency. He quit using for two weeks with the worst side effects of any other drug there is. Opiate withdrawal is a bitch. Diarrhea, stomach cramps, cold sweats, body aches, even hallucinations.
Popper gets off work and drives straight to his parents house and slowly bogs down his loving mother into lending him money, while she gets the purse he takes money from a cookie jar that is always filled with twenty’s. Alone and desperate, he drives to the vacant streets of southwest Detroit to purchase some of his tablets of destitute, yet he cannot wait to take them. He needs them. He arrives on sight like a maniac running from a crime scene of which he was the main culprit. “You got a card?” is what he would say before even uttering the gentle, kind words of hello. What the card was used for is to crush any pills so they can be taken through inhalation. A force that is soon to be reckon with. A deviated septum, ah who gives a shit? The card is a symbol of war, a smear of fate, and a mark of carelessness. The card crushes the pills like the union army crushing confederate arrogance from the depths of the Emancipation Proclamation. It forms the white powder strung across the table like an analgesic desert that provides bodily servitude. The fate lies in the hands of this card, this card that, in reality, permits one to drive, or to buy a beer. It creates a world of hunger, starvation for the next fix, that next essence to fill that void. Carelessness rings from this void. It is en empty hole filled with needs, pessimistic needs. Oh my dear, dear friend.

You always wonder what’s on the other side of that wall. It’s basic human instinct to behold that level of curiosity to nestles itself tightly into the depths of your mind. If you do not possess this than you are either dead or almost deceased. I found out that the old guitar player joined my cousins band today, poor soon of a bitch.
I am going to develop a little mini story that I think will sink into you:

In a small English village, there is a small boy with an imagination that only Lewis Carroll himself could tap into. Nigel Pullman is one of many children that possess a want to venture, a want to flee. The village lies on the southern bank of Liverpool, just down the road from the Albert Dock. The town has an assortment of activites to do that leave the children bored and lifeless. Nigel, along with his brother, gets out of school and ventures down the road to his house along the water. His mother a wonderful homemwaker and his father a brilliant physician meet he and his borther at the door questioning there antics.
“Where have you been?” says the mother
In a ghastly daze, Nigels brother blurts out. “Nigel was walking along the pier line again, I did not want to, but he made me do it.”
“Is that so?
“Yes it is”
In a swift, slap to the back of the head, Nigel falls to the wooden floor feeling a blurry blackness in his head that covers his eyes, the type that happens when you lose your breath.
“Ouch, he is lying.”
“It doesn’t matter you are both late,” syas the mother, “You are both going to pay for this later on, but for now get to the piano! Your lessons started an hour ago.” Scorned the mother.
The boys walk to the piano with the heads between shoulders almost as if they are trying to kiss their chest.
“Why do we have to play this stupid thing?”
“Because I said so!” roaring from the front landing.
The boys being to play the piano when a lonely little book falls from the shelf that protrudes behind, towering over the piano like a skyscraper to a convenience store.
Nigel flees from his seat to see what that ghastly book was. Nigel was not to fond of books, being that his mother spoon-fed them to him since birth. The book that fell was David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. Curious on what caused the disruption; he scans the potential culprit, but notices nothing out of the ordinary.
“Well there seems to be nothing, the piano must have vibrated the book pretty well huh?”
“Yeah, probably” says the brother.

I sit here lieing in the pool of wallowing looking for the cohesion between me and another askew indivdual such as myself, but I cease to find that person. There is always the notion of getting help, but who wants to see a quake? I mean what do they know? It’s not like they spend thousands of dollars to study the mind for no reason. I don’t need Dr. Helper; I have my music.
Music, nothing hits the spot like brushing off the dust on that old record player, popping in your desired record, and making love to the pleasant sounds running rampant in your mind. It’s the antidote that I need to cure this melancholy emptiness. Liam screams at me to hold on, hold on. Maybe he is right, why should I continue to cry my heart out. There are better days ahead of me.
I walk, languidly through the forest of the wooden boom. The trees intertwine like long sticklike fingers caressing the darkness. They possess an almost demonic smile that shoots through you like bullet cutting through flesh; it almost feels like that even. A creature runs by, but it is dark and eerie, definitely not light enough to go chasing it through the woods like a perverted paparazzi. Frightened, I reach in my cloak and de-cloth, suddenly feeling the sweat from my forehead drop to my forearm, but I remain chilled and idle.
The wing blows a kiss of death at me. I feel like I will meet Puritan Hester Prynne if I continue any further, but that is a risk I am willing to take.
I come to a mound of manure that seems to still be hot. It is scorching to be exact, continue on this path is the chosen rule. We’ll I walk I glance around the forest noticing every single tree that rubs it’s faulty fingers on the back of my neck and hair and feel violated by nature itself, but I cannot quit this notion. I must continue on my way. Every little branch and dried out fern cracks under my feet like a school of dried out bugs waiting to be sacrificed to the woods. Wait! I hear a noise coming from beyond that glistening maple tree. It is unusually shiny for a tree in such an atrocious part of the reserve. I stumble around the tree because of the tight ferns that join their leaves to create a synthetic trip wire.
Beyond the tree facing northwest of the shining glimmer of maple wood is a man lying motionless on the ground. I run to the man worried that he may be seriously hurt and require medical aid, but my greatest fear did not arise. Always an over thinker, I tend to be. I shake the man with a gentle sway, but he does not arise. I again shake him, but with the force that you would shake a small child when you punish them, yet again he did not arise. Finally, I used all my might and poked at his side, he coughed and spit onto the ground. Slowly, he begins to stand on his feet and I ask him if he needs any aid, he respectfully declines. The man is wearing tight blue jeans with a dirtied V-neck white shirt that seems ripped at the seams of the throat. There was also an unbearable scent that was irradiating off the man’s lower body. I asked him if he was wearing shoes and again he declined.
The sight that I have just experienced disillusioned me, but not even the pinch can wake me from this slumber. The man stood up and looked at me confused and in agony.
“Your name?”
“Stephan, and yours?”
“I-I don’t know”
“Well, what do you mean you don’t know? You don’t know your name or are you still in a daze?
“I-I don’t know….”
“Well let’s get you some help, can you walk?”
“I am afraid so.”
We begin to walk through the brush and back through the haunted hell that would spawn more diabolic plants, whose roots shoot out like tridents into the cold dead dirt. After a significant amount of time, we find a rode at the edge of the woods. The sun begins to set in the west, so we must make our way to the road as fast as possible.
We arrive at the road, with a minimal amount of time to spare and walk about a mile before a car pulls to the side of the road. It is an old beige van that has a series of dents in the side and looks like a work truck.
“You guys lost?”
“Yes sir we are”
Well Where are you headed? It would be foolish of me to leave you to walk this dark road alone.”
“We are looking to go to a hospital.”
“Oh great, there is one about 5 miles down the road hope in. Sorry about the equpment I just finished a job, in the boonies. A little late night overtime, hard on the body, wonderful on the wallet.” Chuckled the driver.

The Last Time I Looked Out The Window

The Last Time I Looked Out The Window
By. Steve Zwilling

It was November 3rd, 2004 when I last I looked out the window. It may not make sense now, but it will when I am done. I was 17 years old and I had just received a 3-day suspension for being tossed out of a class for the third time in 3 days. The principal called me down to his office and gave me the shbeal about being responsible and not doing drugs, even though drugs were far off of my “to-do list.”
My mother came in looking like the Red Queen after the cards painted her roses red. I have never seen her face in such a bright cluster of crimson. It reminded me of a red hot air balloon barreling at me with centripetal force where I was the center.
“Again, Jonathan, again?” she yells in a scowling tone, “All I do is work for you and your brother and this is how you repay me?”
“I am sorry mom-“
“Sorry is not going to cut it this time, I-“ she pauses with a confused stare, “What do you think I should do Principal Hurley?”
“Well my dear, I believe you should send him to therapy.”
Therapy? Who needs therapy? I couldn’t help but ask myself why they think that. I just got into a little trouble here and there; it’s not like I shot somebody or robbed a convenience store, I mean come on.
“I will get better I promise. Don’t send me to therapy. Please” I pleaded like Oliver asking for more supper.
“You said you would get better last time and the time before that. When is it going to change?”
“It will change now, I promise” I exclaimed as confidently as possible.
“You’re darn right it will change because you’re going right to therapy.” My mother shouted.
“I already called; he is expecting you anytime now.”
“Thank you Principal. I appreciate your help,” she said appreciatively.
My mother flicked her long black hair behind her head and looked straight into my eyes with disapproval. I felt like to black dots were burning holes through my body. She nudged me out of the principal’s door and then outside into the car.
We were on out way to the therapy office and I was hoping to run one over on my mom. So I thought I would give it a try:
“Mom you know all he is going to do is send me back to school and tell me to be good. Then, you will have spent all this money,” I said in a clearly faked concern.
“Johnny, you know what…you’re right.”
I couldn’t believe it. It was almost too easy. I felt like I didn’t even put an honest effort in. Frankly, I was kind of disappointed and looking for the challenge of convincing her.
“I will take you right home after we go to this one place,” she stated in a caring pitch.
“Alright momma, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
So we drove about a mile longer passing the strip mall and a long, drawn out parking lot filled with used cars owned by a guy named Buck. The building was a large pink building with white shudders on the window; it looked like somebody’s house. It kind of looked like those dentist offices that are formed from old three bedroom bungalows.
“Who lives here mom?” I said
She turns to me with a disappointed, yet apologetic stare, “Now I don’t want any trouble out of you just come on in here.”
“Why would I give you-,” then I realized that we were at the office. “Mom, mom please I don’t want to do this. I don’t want kids at school referring to me as the crazy kid.”
“It is going to be fine, honey. Don’t make me feel any worse than I do now.”
For some reason I felt confident in my mom’s words and gave into the offer. The building had a large wooden door with translucent windows. The office smelled like a typical office with an overabundance of carnations and latex.
“Appointment for Jonathan Rixon,” said my mother.
“Yes ma’am, Dr. Kavarcien will be right with you,” the cute young secretary said with long blonde locks and teeth as big a Chiclets.”
As I sat in the office I admired the painting on the walls that were filled with scenes of a sunset. I have never noticed it before, but a lot of offices have pictures of sunsets. It must be settling to the eye before something serious happens. For some reason, that made the situation and me uncomfortably eerie.
The door by the counter opens up and the young secretary sends me to the back of a long hallway that is clearly parallel with the door. As I walk past the other rooms, I notice that there are plaques of many kinds on the wall. They looked like awards and accomplishments; I am not going to lie, I was quite impressed by the elongated collection of plaques and certificates bolted to the pale al wall.
When I arrived at the end of the hall there was a man with coke-bottle glasses and a finely trimmed white beard. He was no bigger than the average height of an older man, but he spoke with a voice that rumbled my chest.
“Hello Jonathan, I am Dr. Kavarcien. I will be keeping you company and asking you some questions. What do you say we talk a little bit?” he questioned cheerfully.
“Sure” I replied.
He began to ask some personal questions about my family and my friends, but they were not too personal so I had no problem answering them. Questions like:
‘How is your relationship with your brother and how often to you hang out with your friends?’
Really not bad ones at all, but then odd questions started arising, questions I didn’t really understand:
‘Are your work-habits becoming different? Are you having trouble paying attention to television when you watch it?’
I did not understand the relevance of any of this, but I answered the questions honestly and he gave me an awkward gaze, holding his chin. He just stood silent humming like there was something particular that he couldn’t put his finger on.
“Have you ever thought of committing suicide?” he said in an abrupt fashion.
“What no, not at all. Why would you ask me that?
“Just answer the questions and I will explain later,” he griped, “Do you get nervous very easy?”
“Hardly ever,” I scowled.
He hummed holding his chin again. I couldn’t help but notice he kept writing something down in his log; I felt uncomfortable every time I heard the pencil scratch the paper. He then told me to stand up and walk over to another room. The cold, distant room smelled like fake flowers and Elmer’s glue. I immediately wanted to leave because I am allergic to white, dripping glue, but that is beside the point. I felt uncomfortable in my own shoes.
“I am going to have you do some tests. Is that alright with you Johnny?” he asks caringly.
“Yeah, s-sure, no problem” hesitating with my answer.
The first test that he gave me was called an Embedded Figures Test, which was kind of a neat picture that the doctor held. It was a black and white picture of an Indian chief’s head and that was it. It looked like it had been through some years.
“What else do you see in the picture?” questioned the old man.
“Umm…” I examined the picture.
Then I noticed it. It was also an Eskimo looking into the sunset.
At first, it was an Indian chief with his hair on the right side of the page and a large noise on the left side of the page with a prominently square chin. I can’t believe how I never noticed it before: His chin was the Eskimos coattail, the nose was the Eskimos arm, and the sunset was the Indians hair. I couldn’t believe it. I was actually having an entertaining time at the doctor’s office and here I thought I was going to be miserable.
After he confirmed my test, he had me take another test. This test was called The Alternative Uses Task, which sounded easy enough. The doctor asked me to list as many possible uses for a doorstop.
“Paperweight, brick, weapon, football, and-“
“Okay that’s plenty good, good. You are doing a great job. Now we are going to try something different,” touching my shoulders, as old men tend to do to support younger men.
He handed me a pill that was half blue and half clear with little pebbles in the pill.
“What is this?” I asked concerned
“It will help you pay attention. It is only temporary.”
So I took the pill and waited for about a half an hour answering more questions about what I do with art and my views on creativity. Finally, I started to feel a sudden rush, like a tidal wave just rushed through my body.
“Doc, I feel weird.”
“Like how son?”
“Like I want to run really, really fast” as my eyes began to flicker from picture-to-picture on the wall.
“Well good that is what we want. Now let’s do the test’s again.”
So we performed the same tests again, but I felt like I was a lot more in tune with them than I was before. I felt like I could do all the tests and then undo them better than I actually did them before. I felt like I was at my ultimate peak of concentration.
“Well, how do you think you did?” he questioned.
“Rather well, if I say so myself.”
“That you did, but do you think you did any better?”
“A lot better” I said confidently.
“Well, you actually did better on the first test, but worse on the second, but that is alright, it really does not mean anything,” explaining with his nose hairs flapping in the wind, “but there is something I need to tell you and if you have any questions, or are confused, stop me at any time.”
“Yes sir” I said.
He began to explain the importance of paying attention and why trouble in school was not the answer for quite sometime. It was like every other elder person who was lecturing me in my life. The pill began to wear off. So I proceeded to tune him out and looked out the window, until he slammed his hand on my shoulder, “Repeat what I just said.”
“T-That I need to whip it into shape” spouting off my typical answer to the question when somebody is giving me the 3rd degree.
“Wrong Mr. Rixon, I said that I have panties on my head.” I began to laugh because I thought he was trying to make an honest joke with me. He seemed like a nice guy.
“You see Jonathan, you possess the symptoms of Attention Deficit Disorder” he declared in a rather obtuse manner throwing his hands in a whirl wind fashion to every vowel he sounded out, like I was a mentally-disabled child, “the symptoms are commonly diminished attention span, you are distracted very easily, and a tendency to overlook details.”
“I know a lot of kids like that.”
“Well do they take Adderall?” with a rebuttal.
“Well I-I don’t know. I never asked.”
He stood up in his chair and motioned for me to come back to the previous room that smelt that same, but excluded the glue and replaced it with latex. We both sat down and he stared me right in the face concerned, “You’re going to start taking Adderall. It will make you feel more in tune with your attention span.”
“No, no way” I cried out it in agony and puzzlement, “The kids at school will make fun of me. I will never be able to show my face in there again if they see me popping pills.”
“You will only have to take one a day before you go to school. Remember how great you felt earlier? Well that was a temporary psycho-stimulant drug called Ritalin. I only gave you a small amount for the tests; it wore off rather quickly and that’s when I could tell that you needed it.”
It did make sense to me. The pill made me feel like I was superman or something. I felt like I could do my math homework, run a mile and talk to every single person I see along the way. He told me that the pill was going to make me feel enthusiastic to learn and that I will pay better attention to my surroundings.
The next day at school I first started taking the pill and I was sitting in my math class. That was the class that I was previously kicked out of and in result, had to frequent the therapy office. The office that smelt like a glove covered carnation. I was in tune with everything and anything that came my way. I felt like I could teach the class if I wanted too. I began to speak so much that she threatened to kick me out if I was not quiet, “Mr. Rixon, shut up or get out,” she said irately.
Usually I was a loner in art class in terms of doing the work. I was artistic like every average student in the class, but my friends were the firmly labeled “trouble-makers.” I did my work, but I was always done early, in turn making me talk to my friends more, but I couldn’t help it, I was so bored. Today was different though. I was on the new miracle pill. I thought I would be able to build a miniature scale of the empire state building in about two seconds if I needed too, but I knew that was a bit far-fetched.
“Now class we are going to fuse your different types of thinking together. First, we will identify what is in the picture and how many pictures are similar to that picture,” the teacher said cheerfully.
There was a large table located in the middle of this classroom. On the table were eight different sets of pictures, some were in three and some were in four. The pictures all seemed to be the same type of thing, it was a black lamp sitting in front of a white wall, but the wall seemed to change color’s in each picture.
“Notice anything different about some of the pictures?” the teacher asked in an interested tone, “Some of the pictures should have some underlying meaning in them.”
Then it hit me, I remembered the task from yesterday. It was an Embedded Figures Task and that is the one I excelled on. One of the four pictures that I had was a black lamp in front of a white wall. The top of the lamp was shaped like a tornado with a rod coming through the bottom of it. Only a third of the lamp was showing so when you looked at another perspective it looked like the bottom half of a girl in a bikini. Her legs came out where the sides of the tornado and the shadow on the outline of the wall made a leg formation. Then the light itself looked like the bottom half of a European style men’s swimsuit or a ladies bikini.
“This is a special figures test isn’t it?” I asked nonchalantly, knowing the answer.
“Yes you are correct Jonathan, great job” pleased that I was paying attention, which she is not use to, “Now your next step is to draw your own.”
I was at a loss. I could not think of any way to do this. Looking at the picture seemed just fine, but when it came down to actually forming it, I could not get my mind around the idea.
“Now your divergent thinking comes into play,” she said charismatically, looking around the class like she drew on the board an unsolvable math equation, “Let’s see who has the right mindset.”
You would think the drug would help me out, but it did not. I was at a loss. Some people came close, but many were left with regular picture, such as Dolphins that form to skies and other attempts that didn’t make sense.
It was reminiscent of what the doctor said and it all made sense now: dealing with any straightforward knowledge with simple tasks requires my convergent thinking, but when it came to my independent thinking. I was at a loss. The pill isn’t what I thought it was after all. My attention span is better, but I don’t feel anymore enhanced or creative. From there on, I never stared out the window in class again.

“Upon Wedlock, and Death of Children (Paraphrased)”

A Curious flowerbed God made in paradise,
And drew it out polished neatly and well.
It was a true-love flowerbed, more good than bad,
And it was set with a gorgeous wedding dress.
It’s a wedding that can’t be ruined:
Nothing in this world can stop it.

The cuttings were planted, growing happy and glorious:
Unless a hellish breath gets rid of them.
Here Primrose, Cowslips, Roses, and Lilies bloom,
With Violets and Pinks that emit good scents:
Whose beautiful leaves overlaid with Honey Dew,
And chanting birds chirp out sweet music.

When I was in this flowerbed I planted my stem
Soon came out a manly flower.
And after it, my branch did it again
Brought out another Flower, it’s a sweet-breathed child.
One gave to the other, to the other’s place
They had chuckling smiles in each other’s face

But Oh! A glorious hand came
Guarded with Angels, they soon did take this flower
Which almost tore the root out again,
At that surprising, gloomy, and dark hour.
In Prayer to Christ the scent did rise,
And bright angels took it to heaven.

But pausing, on to this sweet scent of my thought:
Christ would in glory have a Flower, Choice, Prime,
And having choice, he chose my branch,
Lord takes it. I thank you; you take it out of mine:
It is my pledge in glory and part of me
The Lord is glorified with it.

Daddy's Pet Language

Beedo buddy nar harring bout the buddy.
Smail smailf smelling the little tiles.
Nadahadda naws at Nannanna for tify time.
Alfasmelfa also smelling at the little tiles.
Funnahunna humming to the rhythm hope.
Baaaaaabe Baaaaacking out to bust the kids.
Hinnadinna donna did the dinna differently.
Tazmanana wander whiffle webbing the knots.
Smailfs small smelling the swelled belly.
Shmee Smee Smeee softened on the doggy bed
Fennerhenna hasa had drooling in the bowl.
Smailf…….
Annahanna…….
Alfsmalf……
Tazamanna……
Babies of the world class pet lovers of metropolitan utopia.

Do You Know Why I Quit?

Do You Know Why I Quit?
By. Steve Zwilling

I
I have been smoking marijuana for over three years now. My mother say’s it’s going to kill me, but fuck her, what does she know? An average day for me is to wake up from a deep, stoned slumber for my day of school. I am not your typical stoner though; I enjoy school considerably. When I smoke weed; I am the smartest man on earth. What your classic student will strive to complete in an hour, I can do in ten minutes flat when I am high. The problem is my choice of friends, or that’s what my parents say.
In the eye’s of the lord, I am all right; in the eyes of my parents, I am going against the lord. What provokes me to write like this? That is a good question, let me think; When I was 14 years old I threw a birthday party with 6 of my best friends, but you see I had two sets of friends. I had my hockey friends and then I had my “S” friends. I know what your thinking what is an S friend, well let me explain, An S friend can be an assortment of things, they can symbolize the smoke going into my lungs or they could symbolize their status as being a stoner. It is up to interpretation, so I just label them as my S friends.
It all started in the back of my shed, my friend Ron, a skinny blonde kid who dresses himself like a country club degenerate with a collared shirt and acid wash shorts in March, brought over some weed.
“Want to smoke some weed” he asks suspiciously.
“No thanks man” I say nervously.
“Ah! Don’t be a pussy you will be fine,” As he drapes his cold skinny arm around my neck. “Besides would I let anything happen to you?”
Well he did. I became obsessed. There is nothing better than that first high. You want to laugh like you have seen the funniest thing in the world, but you can’t even move; you want to eat a life supply of assorted snack foods, but you can barely open your eyes to walk. It was exhilarating, like a child getting his favorite toy for Christmas. The feeling runs through you like an analgesic elixir spreading through your veins like wildfire. Things would never be the same again.
My bedroom was in the northeast corner of my house on the middle floor, just below my parent’s bedroom; the only spot in the house where the window doesn’t sound like nails on a chalkboard when opened. My friend Zak, who was an average height gentleman, has brand new muscles from buying a powerhouse gym package, wore a set of blue jeans and a white t-shirt, came out to the shed with Ron and I. It was also his first time smoking green, and it would be his last.
“Come on you faggets!” exclaimed Ron rushing us so I did not get in trouble. That was the thing about Ron. He never got in trouble because of his paranoia; he always thought somebody was watching his every move. This will lead to further problems, which I will discuss later.
We reached the back of my shed and began to smoke the joint. We all hit it, inhaling every thing we could and coughing to the point to where our throats felt like tubes with fire being pushed through them. The funny thing about coughing with smoking is that it always makes you that much more high. That is why it is a shame when people smoke to much marijuana and develop the tolerance to the hot array of smoke going down their throats.
As we finished the circle session, we floated back to my room and fell asleep like three inebriated disasters washing through the room. Come the next morning, I never slept as well as I did any previous night, I had to get up and do it again; I was hooked. When I awoke from my deep slumber I called my friend Anthony, whose father smoked weed often and always had a batch in his sock drawer. I went over to his house and we stole his dad’s weed while he was at work and smoked a joint each at the very back of his garage, which looked like an underground railroad where slaves used to hide, but it was above ground. It was so run down in the area that it felt like you sunk underground.
That night I went home high as can be and sat on my bed looking for something to do. You see there are many different kind of stoners: lazy stoners, the most common, who just like to smoke and sit; then you have your active smokers, who smoke weed all day everyday to function or else they feel lost, unfortunately I was the latter. I smoked before I went anywhere, hockey, football, school, cousin’s ballet recital, it did not matter; I was a machine. It kept me going and I do not regret it at all because I did develop a talent of which I admire more than life itself, my ability to write.
I may not be the best writer or the most fluent, but, by god, I love to do it. Emphatically, I would get stoned and write in my journal for hours, it was an amazing time in my life. I felt free when I was writing in my journal, I could say anything I want, draw any pictures that arose, and most importantly, reminisce about weed. Weed set some major high points in my life, but unfortunately, it also clear a path for larger narcotic events.




II
They say that marijuana is a gateway drug. When I smoked marijuana, I found this statement to be irrelevant and invalid. How could marijuana possibly be a gateway drug? Well this experience made me a believer.
When I was 16 years old I had just gotten my license and was a regular pot smoker. I didn’t get my license to drive, I got my license to get a car, where I could smoke as much as I wanted without having to find a corner so I could light the joint, or a wall to lean against when I am to fucked up. This turned out to be a burden to many of my friends.
You see I was the first one of my S friends to turn sixteen so I was the designated driver. If you needed weed, I was your guy; if you needed smokes, I was your guy. Unfortunately, we started to go straight to the source. I will explain the drug process to you, briefly: first, you would either find a middle man to get you the drug or you could get it straight from the source. When getting it through a middle man you would get less weed for more money, whereas, when you went to the main source you would get more weed for less money because of your effort of coming to them. So my friends and I started going to the source, which was in Detroit. Detroit’s drug scene is truly a malicious place filled with people hunting for the next fix of drugs or money. It was like seeing what Armageddon did to a certain part of the scene, truly a horrible scene.
It was down in Detroit where other drugs were also sold. My friends and I were down in Detroit buying a bag of weed, when a man walks to my driver side door.
“You guys want some pills.” Nervously I declined, but my friends wanted to pursue it.
“How much?” I said having no idea what the drug even was.
“It is 4 dollars a pill.” He presents the pills like they were in assorted pill cases.
“We will take one each.”
So, we paid the man and swallowed the pills like senseless amateurs just diving into a new abyss. I was driving home and was beginning to feel a sudden rush of energy.
“Do you guys feel weird?” I questioned.
“I cannot stop clenching my jaw and I feel like I could run 20 miles.”
“Yeah that’s how I feel.” I said with all the other agreeing.
It turns out what we were illegally prescribed were amphetamines. I broke into a whole other scene that I never even knew, or had the intention, of dabbling in. I was driving well over the speed limit because I felt like there was somewhere I needed to go quickly, but there wasn’t.
On amphetamines, your mind is at full speed, but your body cannot catch up. My friends and I, being freaked out by the new feelings, went to our houses to try to come down slightly. It was an astonishing feeling in the least; it felt as if you took a pill and any problem you possessed or have to do can be completed with ease, whether it’s talking to the other sex or finishing a long homework assignment. For me, this meant some intense writing time.
When I was on the amphetamine, I wrote well over 11 pages in my journal talking about my day in such descriptive detail that while writing I often overlapped my own words forming some new literary dribble that pieced together to look like scratched Chinese symbols. The amphetamine gave me the drive to write more, but the actual intellect in my writing seemed to falter. I was too worried in the abundance of writing rather than the aesthetic of my ideas. Although, I did jot down many valuable ideas that I could later form to piece together a work that satisfies in its totality.




III
It’s an interesting thing being on psychedelics; it can make you crazy. Crazy is not even the perfect word to describe the feeling. Mystification is a better word to suite what I went through with the first time I did psychedelics.
Everyone has watched the old 60’s movies where dirty hippies are parading around in their hemp clothing, looking like they haven’t washed for days, trying to “find” themselves. I am not going to lie, it looks like a wonderful time. Psychedelics were at their peak in the 60’s, but every since then the potency of the drug became worse and worse, due to improper techniques in producing it and the cutting of the substance with others in the distribution of it.
When I was 18 years old, I had my first encounter with a psychedelic. My friends and I were going to a Steve Miller Band concert and, as usual, I was the one chosen to drive. This ended up to be the worst idea that we have pursued, or it goes down in the record books. Coincidentally, one of my friends decides to bring a bag of psilocin, or better known as mushrooms. At this point, I have never done any kind of psychedelic and was not looking to start, but of course, in the honor of experimentation, I ate the mushroom’s, lucky to have bitter taste buds from the numbing beer.
“How do you guys feel?” says my friend Ron unconfidently.
“Nothing yet.” I said curiously because I was expecting a direct hit.
About an hour later, I was looking at the stage and it began to turn upside down. I was thrown in the biggest mind-altering rabbit hole in my entire life. I felt like dancing, laughing, puking, and running all at once, just to take in every smidgen of this encounter. I felt like I was on top of the world and then in an instant I thought I saw the devil making his way through the crowd to smite me.
“You guys I’m bugging out!” screams my friend in a nervous frenzy.
We take a long stare at him and all break in the biggest uproar of laughter a group of fucked up people could muster.
“Look how big his head is,” Ron says with a silent choked chuckle, “he looks like a gay mad hatter.”
Hilarity ensues again and we fall to the ground, it was lawn seats at an outdoor venue, and start rolling around like children. The drug made us inebriated, perplexed children that were oblivious to the world around us. At times, it was a golden riot, but other times it was like we were walking down the main road to hell and we can’t side step the visions.
In this state, I clearly was unable to drive, so we had to take a cab an hour in a half to return home. God bless the cab driver that drove of us home, he probably went home and downed the finest bottle of Brandi that he could find, or any intoxicant of his choice. We were like wild hippie children dancing in the tiny yellow chauffeur taking us to the end of the world.
You would think when I got home I would be drained from the wild night, but I was fascinated. I have found a drug that touches me in a way that even marijuana cannot. I realized the problems it could have, but I didn’t care. I grabbed my journal and started writing a story. The story of which I could hardly read in the morning, but I wrote for a good hour, a dribble of nonsense about a boy and his experience with an abusive father. The kick was that he had a closet that took him to a magical land of talking creatures and edible plants. The psychedelics definitely pushed my creative ambition to a new height.

IV
When I was 19 years old I encountered the most senseless experience I will ever see from a human being even to this day. It was a hot summer day and I had just joined a band with some guys from high school. We used to get some weed and beer before each session, just to chill out; calm the nerves, but one of us liked to push it.
My friend Joe was always taking everything to the extreme. When it came to any new drug, I was always down to try, but he entered a world for which I will never even dip my finger into. The insatiable world of opiates is a place for internal degradation and external homicide to the body and mind.
On this particular day, we were driving down to Detroit to grab a bag of weed. It was a typical day before practice, if we were short on weed. We did it countless amounts of times before, but today was different; Joe was feeling a little frisky.
“Hey, lets get some different stuff.” He said with a look of assurance from me.
“Like what?” excited for the new experience, but also overtly concerned.
“How about some smack?”
I could not believe-my-ears. At first, I knew he was joking, but I took it in that form, “Yeah right-“
“I am serious, lets get some.”
“No man, I don’t want any part of that.” Says another friend.
“Yeah dude, why?” he asked concerned.
He explained that it was different and he knew a guy who sold it just down the street from where we got marijuana. We drove in front of the house and parked waiting for a guy to come out. The guy was a tall, pale man with a very dark complexion under the eyes like he hasn’t slept in years. His arms were wire-thin with scabs all up down his arms. When he entered the car, he wreaked of old moss and cat urine. It was clearly the smell of a vacant house, otherwise known as a shooting gallery. If you didn’t know what a shooting gallery was, I will explain. A shooting gallery is a place where junkies all gather to shoot up heroin together with needles. I have never personally been to one, but I could imagine the detrimental scene of the useless corpse-like individuals lying like cold statues daydreaming of a better day.
“Hey guys, you ready to get down?”
“You’re not doing it in here are you?” I said in an earnest, yet upset scowl, “that is not something I want done in here.”
“What? Fine dude we will go outside.” Said Joe
They sat at the side of my car, on a curb, and it was clear that Joe has dabbled in the opiate situation before. It looked like a walk in the park to him. He tied off his arm with his belt, flicked his arm to get a vein, cooked the heroin in the spoon till it was a amber liquid, and he was good to go. The other skinny fellow followed the same process. I sat in a shocked daze just waiting for reality to kick in. I could not believe I was witnessing this slap in the face of humanity, this waste of the human figure stabbed by the harsh trident filled with an analgesic monster, but junkies don’t think that way. They think of heroin as an escape; a way out. They think of the drug as something to guide them through the hell that they think life is.
“They both laid down on the grass behind them as their butts remain on the concrete curb. They looked like to bodies’ unconscious from a swift kick to the head.
After a few moments, the lifeless man went back into the house and Joe got back into the car.
“Alright, let’s go.” He said in a slow slur.
There was a silence almost the whole way home. We could not believe our eyes. All I could think of is that I was riding in a car with an actual junkie; I almost felt like a junkie myself because of how close I was to one.
“Are you serious man?” I said with a concerned glare.
“What?” he replies in defense
“What do you mean what? I explained, “You just shot heroin into your arm and it was clearly not the first time!”
“So what, lets just go play music.” He calmly uttered.
I stared at him for a solid thirty seconds, thinking of whether I should beat him up or just let him kill himself, but he was my friend I tried using words.
We arrived at the house and began to practice. Heroin tends to make your body, especially if you’re a new user, go in slow motion. Every chord, or note, that we hit, he was one behind. It was like he was a little boy trying to keep up with the big boys on the bikes. The ironic thing about this is he is the best musician of us all; he is the one always on his game, hardly ever missing a beat. It was a crying shame to see such a promising creative soul falling to the squanders of such an illicit drug. His creative ambition was tarnished and his ability was almost completely out the window. I also wrote about this experience, but not much. I could not even describe my notions in words; it was that uncomfortable.

Ballad Of Loss

Ballad

Strung out from the cold dead road
Eugene walks morbid streets
Feeling he can’t complete the task
He sees her in faces he meets

The walls close in around his head
A broken boy soldier
Missing his love from, which he left
He’ll never feel closure

She’s fading as disease consumes
Consumption, a deadly killer
He thinks of the good times
The movies, which were thrillers

He was forced to go overseas
Leaving her to mourn
Discovering troubled news
A son is to be born

The disease rips at her bones
She still remains strong
He cries himself to sleep
Not really getting along

Loathing the different facts of life
Completing his thought
The next letter is in the mail
The fight was then fought

She had nothing left to give
Alone in her bed she lay
Lifeless lies a motionless figment
Time of death, 8:20

On his knees clutching the letter
Tears spread the ink about
Like a pool of lonely words
He cannot live without

I have nothing to live for
Walks to his deserted closet
He grabs the metallic pistol
Mulls over all facts about it

He slips the pistol into his mouth
Tears stream down his face
Why was it her he took?
Nothing can fill her place.

My son and my wife are gone
Finger pulls the trigger
There is nothing to live for
No more fears to linger

This God-Forsaken Place

This God Forsaken Place

I loathe the inner sentiments of this place.
The morbid halls covered in plain ale paint,
Filled with ravishing women with no personality.
The vaccination stained smell in the freezing air.
Syringes lying around like still, dominated bodies in a war.
How is your day? Psh….. like you really care.
Scholars milking worthy patients of ever penny they possess’;
Like the rich conservative bastards need anymore.
What does your job title actually include?
You have a bullshit lifestyle Miss Nothing.
I float through the halls of joy only to find sadness.
The children who have to remain indoors,
Like a school of melancholy tuna in a money hungry sardine can.
Holidays spent in this tragically shot replica of home,
This replica holds more dollars than smiles.
God, how I hate this god-forsaken place.

Bathhouse Presentation #2

Stephanie Rowden and Stephen Benson
Rowden’s piece at first was a bit awkward, but started to perform an interesting repetitive field of “is that wool hat, my hat?” I will admit that it was oddly catchy after awhile, but I think it could have been practiced more thoroughly because it, at times, seemed off key and rushed. In the performers defense, there is an excitement in performing without practicing; it is similar to the idea of improvisation. The performers just went off each other’s natural hunch, forming a slue of personalities into the piece. It definitely put an enticing spin on the piece as a whole.
Rowden’s main expertise is on art in sounds and noises in areas. It is really unusual to notice all the little details in universal noises, such as, the thunder noises of the bass, in a 24 hr. breakfast, of people walking around. Also, the quiet child voices of children gossiping in Poland under horse hooves. She truly grabbed the innocence of sound in a room with her presentation of it as an overlooked characteristic in an area, yet she showed it’s forceful nature. It was remarkable how often the beauty of a sound can be overseen, to focus on lighter areas of something such as its appearance. The sound is often even more interesting than the appearance. Rowland definitely has an ear that is prone to melodic movement in the air.
Rowland stated in one of her pieces, the title of have since forgot, “Sound can cross time, place, and imagery.” In other words, sound cannot only carry on in place, but it can carry through time. This phrase reminds me of an aesthetic characteristic that is held in the human psyche, the déjà vu of a particular sounds. Everyone has that situation in their life where they have heard or seen this situation before, but they cannot put their finger on it, I often have these experiences, especially with sound. It’s like when you hear a song when you were a child, but it intrigued you so much by the sound that you remember every word of it when the music starts playing, but off the top of your head you are at a loss.
The presentation also incorporated an appealing sense of humor. The context of which she used the humor was meant to remain serious, but the humor helped move her point along. For example, in one of the pieces there is a man saying something in a humorous voice, “its kind of damp, rainy, cold” in what I thought was some kind of Slavic accent. Also, how she displayed the reactions of the people in her art gallery. When they heard the noise coming from the boxes, there were some fascinating facial expressions, which represent a curiosity in human experience that some artists may overlook.
The Saratoga diary was absolutely fascinating in it’s entirety. Rowland truly found something so original, yet innovative, which provided for a sense of unique wonder in her work. One of the most interesting aspects of the piece is that they are in frames and doors. A question that I have wondered since the presentation is if the frames around the doors contributed to the personality or the sound of each piece. The frame around one of the pieces, which was the sound of horse jockeys and gospel singers, displayed a pretty simple golden frame that looked like it would possess an important religious painting of an omnipotent deity with a sacred document.
Benson was not as interesting as I thought he would be, but I did appreciate the creative spark, which lead to his improvisation. The technology failed, which seems to be a common contribution to important situations, and left the presentation a little bland. Benson’s work is astonishing and I have read a considerable amount of it so hearing his work was very interesting, but I would have liked to see his technological side of the presentation. This is no disrespect to him as an artist because he presented himself as a true artist performing with what resources he had.
The part of the piece that I liked the most came at some point in the piece that I cannot remember. I want to say that it was at the beginning, but it consisted of him reading off random pieces of text that he ripped off a set. This reminded me of one of my favorite videos of all time “Subterranean Homesick Blues” by Bob Dylan. In the video, every single major theme of a lyrical line would be written on a large presentation board and when he sang that lyric he would slowly throw it on the ground, displaying the next lyric he sang. It was this type of innovation, simple, but beautiful, that reminded me of Benson.