library letter

desperation runs through the veins in my body
desperation for hope
for truth
for loyalty
love and lust
like an overdose injection of heroine
i feel it burn through my body
driving me forwards
pulling the breath through my nostrils
and out my gaping mouth
i survive for now
but i must live
i must know
the doors of disgrace are down on me once more
no longer do i carry myself with respect
and arrogance is long gone
for now
continuance
one foot in front of the other
one
at
a
time


if i don't know my family
what do i know about me

Just A Brief Collection of Ideas Strewn Upon Paper

Every time I put ideas to the pen, and then the pen to paper. I write left to right. Right? At least that’s how it seems to me. Last night while I was writing it seemed rather odd to be doing so, writing right to left that is, like I was using the wrong hand. Well I shall disregard the feeling just like one disregards the homeless. Just ignore them and they’ll be clothed and fed. How does the homeless look upon one as myself? They are always peering up at you, as if they got up from they’re square of cement some other bum will take it right from under them, everyone has something to lose. But that’s all this is. Life. We go through life, living in our lonesome cubicle. Separated from the world but still somehow a part of it. This is a collective nation of the homeless. We are born, bred, and raised in our little square of the universe. We are not connected to the world, rather we distantly participate in it. I see the grass and call it green. You see it and call it green. Perhaps we are seeing the same thing. In my cubicle of life green looks one way. And in yours it sounds another way. Maybe the racists have just been born with wicked eyes and natural cruel intentions. It’s not necessarily their fault. But they are wrong, from my perspective that is. And the feeling of love is simply terrifying for the masochists. And every time that cheerleader literally spills her guts after eating, does she feel like I do after thanksgiving? I do not know. Nor do they. Our cubicles are not the same but they may be somewhat similar. Those who commit murder and terrible acts against themselves and theirs own, they are the ones whose universe sets their mind ablaze with madness.

Mark Twain stairs at me from my newly acquired mug. I purchased it from the thrift store for forty cents. All the effort and materials that went into it. Forty cents. It wasn’t even worth a dollar to whomever no longer wanted it. Well I want it. And I wouldn’t sell it for mere cents that is for certain. I value worthless things sometimes.

Zachariah is walking through the forest that he walks through everyday after a long, tedious time at work. This particular day is no different, the trees are still in bloom, the squirrels scamper up and down trees after one another, and birds leave their nests. September never looked so good. “Warm today, gonna have to bring a jacket soon though,” Zachariah thinks to himself out loud, “fall is on the horizon.” Somewhere in between thinking about dinner plans and appreciating a robin’s nest a large oak tree wavers in the wind. This tree was planted ages before Zachariah was even born, there’s no way anyone could have foreseen the events that followed. The weakened tree begins its journey down towards the earth with the help of gravity pulling it down ten meters a second. Nobody had heard it coming. It hadn’t been anything personal; it was simply the tree’s final resting place. It also just happened to be Zachariah’s as well. Vital organs are crushed; his lungs struggle to take in necessary air. With his hands at his side he is pinned to the ground, like a note reminding one to check his email stapled to a corkboard. He yells for help. He yells until blood pours from his raw throat and into his mouth, he no longer forms words but animalistic cries. This is true desperation. Everything starts to get a bit fuzzy and hazy as if it was the morning after a hard, warm rain. Out of the fog and the blackness he starts to see something different. The warm forest is no longer itself, trees start to look like white pillars, bushes are really counters and desks, an IV is in his arm. A more familiar image is at the forefront of his vision. And he didn’t think, he knew who it was. It was his family. Here they all are, half-circled around him and his hospital bed waiting. Waiting for him to die. The sound of the forest is completely gone now, replaced by that of mankind, crying, yelling, some persistent beeping. This beeping was barely even noticeable at first, now it dug into Zach’s skull, at least it was slowing now…

Lindsay watched her weakened brother in his hospital bed for the last time; this had been one of many hospital trips she and her family had made in the last few months. Zach had been suffering from some sort of cancer, she really didn’t know too much of the details, all she knew was this was the last time she would say goodbye to her older brother. The last few months had been especially hard, every time they visited it seemed Zach lost more weight than last time. Walking into the same hospital room, the same dead smell of cleaning products and piss mixed equally, the same motionless body of her former brother, the same countless tubes and machines. More of a shell of a former self, than a real human being she thinks casually. But today he finally gets to finish living and move on. Luckily everyone else had made it today, Lindsay thought to herself. We’re all going to miss him very much, and as this thought crosses her beautiful mind it begins. One of the machines amongst the mass of electronic nonsense begins to make a sound that you wouldn’t need a doctor to tell you was malevolent. They all knew what was happening. Just then she saw something that she hadn’t seen in months, it was something human in Zach’s eyes. Some sort of realization, like the kind you get when you skip to the end of the book before you finish it. And then it was gone. He was gone. A moment of silence, and just a moment before everyone began to talk. Talk and talk, about arrangements, about bills, nonsensical things. But before that, all it took was a moment. Just a moment was all it took to appreciate the beautiful September day outside of the window. Fall is on the horizon.

II. Nothing can be predicted. Prophecy? No such thing. The time beyond this very moment is intangible. Do the limitations of the human mind exist only within the mind? I think so. It is impossible to cross over to the grave while still being even partially alive. We all are only partially alive. And we walk one plane at a time, and beyond that, there is blackness- there is nothing at all.

An estimation of what happened to Zachariah's body when he died is of little significance. This is because his soul will most likely spend eternity in purgatory, right alongside everyone else who has fallen to death. It is a place that negates any sort of progress, any sort of forward motion- it is an eternity spent in inaction. So much like this life. So much like what was once life.

Zachariah's state of being, or what Lindsay assumed it was, came to her in a vivid dream. Zachariah was trapped in a room full of mirrors; every piece of glass was seamless and disguised the wall entirely. There was a door to this room, but as soon as it closed, it was impossible to see the exit- what was once the entrance. Human instinct told Zachariah that he needed to escape, as he was placed in this room against his will.

Each panel of glass in the room refracted and reflected the image of a sole body in the middle of the floor an infinite amount of times. The images seemed to go so far back that they appeared to become someone else. The only light came from a single space in the mirrors where glass did not properly align. Outside it was daylight. By this Zachariah kept time. But the daylight was just as intangible as the state of the soul in purgatory. And it didn’t take long for the reality to dawn; that in this place the only element that was able to be controlled was Zachariah’s own mind. Everything else existed outside of his control and could only be materialized if he was consciously aware of it. Because of this principle, we all exist alone and mostly purposeless- as ships that have never sailed. “Reality” is truly just a state of mind. And although two people’s vision may intersect, their entirely separate realities can never be grafted.

So many people question and debate whether there is life after death. But who wonders about whether there is life before death? The only reason death tempts some is because life- true life- was never existent to begin with.

Morning came the day after Zachariah’s death in the most non-descript manner. Nature doesn’t mark time in the lives of humanity- that is our own doing. Lindsay had slept a black, dreamless sleep, and when she woke up, there was nothing. No empty space that someone’s life had once occupied. Lindsay glanced at her alarm clock, the product of someone else’s, or many people’s, estimation of time- and decided to give up on tracking the time for that day. Eventually she found herself out of bed, and standing in the doorway of what once was Zachariah’s bedroom. That place certainly resonated with emptiness. But to Lindsay’s surprise, the room was filled with a lighter sort of emptiness- with sunlight. The curtains were held back and the bed was stripped. The closet doors were wide open and Zachariah’s belonging were strewn across the room in plain sight. Covering his bed and desk were notebooks, letters, and loose paper that had all been retrieved from the closet.

Lindsay sat down at his desk to read a page that was full of Zachariah’s handwriting. The words took her to the same state of mind he was in when he wrote them. They contained no prophecy, but they did tell of the past. There were no traces of sadness, but maybe some nostalgia. Lindsay remembered what Zachariah was describing in his random, misplaced sentences. No purpose. Just writing for the sake of memory. She remembered the day, and everything they had felt and what had occurred. She was with him. And for a second being alone in existence was not the case. For a moment, Zachariah and his sister’s thoughts collided in space, in the same way the seasons go from one to the next. The thoughts passed. The memory was embraced, and soon after, released.

often i awake

he wakes in the morning
or in the afternoon
never in the evening, unfortunately
when the time for the day to begin comes
it is accepted in silence
like the man walking to his noose
the shower is much too cold today he thinks
this shouldn't be
one should gently ease into waking
and confronting the day
he never remembers his dreams
of course he remembers very little of the real world
just it's crimes
but if he did remember his dreams
he would never want to wake
for he would find suitable substitutes for the truth
he would find

it is close to dusk. it has been for the past couple hours. it looks gorgeous along with the hills and this path they have been following. here and there some bird takes off or lands near by, i sure hope they appreciate the beauty of their home, he thinks. his company that he walks with, they are all faceless and no one, but all are great friends and great company at that. and as they were all talking have good community, a siren rips through the evening sky like a man into a woman's blouse. the talk amongst the group quickly turns to that of the invasion. not knowing but remembering about it, he thinks that its highly likely that that is it. the planes make no noise nor make any warning as they pass within spitting distance of him. others in the group are taken away somehow. he cant tell how, though he saw it. he feels no fear, he feels acceptance. and like that it is back to the beautiful evening that is was moments ago. the group has been reduced to a smaller number, but it is still beautiful outside regardless. maybe even more so at that. the sunset seems more brilliant somehow. after hardly any walking they are coming upon a house. this house is spectacular at the least. but while walking up to it he sees a drop of dew on some leaf. and he sees this drop of dew. truly. seeing all the light refracted within it breaking it into all and every colour. this happens so briefly that he doesn't even bother mentioning it to the rest of the group, they wouldn't understand or believe so why waste the beauty on them. he is different.hefeelsdifferent. his surroundings seem. different. every step he takes he can feel gravity pulling on each individual cell in his body. he feels how the earth longs for him ever so much to return to it. like the woman longs for her captain of a husband to return to shore. the inside of the house is more magnificent than they could have anticipated. but somehow the beauty of the marble counter tops, jade door nobs, cedar doors, the gold faucets, etcetera, etcetera, is lost on him. somehow it is nothing. a small stair set of about three are in front him he leaps down them. it is as majestic as a fighter jet take off and landing. leaving the earth, breaking its spell momentarily. and gracefully returning like a true lover. one of the bathrooms is the entire basement apparently. he goes to the spiral stairs and before embarking down them turns both faucets next to the stairs all the way. he isn't sure which one is which but he turns them both all the way anyway. the tub is all the way down stairs so he'll find out soon enough. before doing so he is sidetracked in something or other, i don't quite remember you see, its unimportant. but when he pulls away and heads towards his bath he finds an entire room of water waiting for his arrival. oh, to feel the bonds between the water molecules and feel it all as separate entities instead of one large substance.... this must all have to do with the invasion he thinks. sure

morning will come.
it always does.
but one must go to sleep now.
not so that one may awaken some morning in silence.
but so they may dream.

september evening

Finally
i have finished
so that i can begin again
hours were spent finding the perfect words
hours hunched over the computer screen
dimly lit in the dark my face grew weary
trying to make a brief second of perfection
but then it ended
now i lay in bed
thinking of other things
things that have importance
some that have none
powerful Russian voices fill my ears
it is dark
remember, remember the eleventh of September
the terrible deceit and self dismember
don't ever be quiet
don't ever be still
for they took your freedoms
with fear they instilled

apollo 11

off in the distance

in the dark

you can make out a figure

or perhaps many

but you know

someone.

is.

there.

certain of it

there has got to be

others have told you of their walk in daylight

but you know your strong

and persistent

you walk a bit more

with a certain steadiness about you

as you draw nearer

your vision hones

you know now what it is

that you have been making you strides towards

hoping

i am laying in bed

listening

to the music

my own

my neighbors

that of the cicadas

out of all this i hear you

all the way across the state lines

your whisper is above the noise

i wake

second day

standing in front of all those judgmental eyes

the same feeling as struggling for the surface and sunlight

some asshole in the crowd sneezes

quite loudly during the so called "speech"

sorry

that's some inspirational shit, man

fixda fernback

vile chemicals

corrupting

killing

it's a cancerous sport really

like Connor said,

im "trying to balance my brain"

but he's human too

why take advice from another one?

all i have are questions

no answers

no eloquence

not even some wool

to pull over your eyes

nothing is new

i say this over and over

but i realize

it's because nothing has been

ever

energy. matter. creativity.

it is all just transferred

from one to another

passing it on later

borrowing it for now

if this is the case

thank god Bukowski passed

intro

a big bad football player

tough as hell

except now standing before us

telling us his story

watch

him

squirm

on the verge of tears?

oh i hope

his discomfort is my joy

at least he can form words

and wrap his mouth around sentences

worth less

seventy one

the air conditioner
the fucking air conditioner
is one foot away from my computer
and my face
it
is
cold

pence

i sit on a stone bench
it is quite cool
the sun on my shoulders however is not
a meter away from me are two long legged blonds
talking
about everything and nothing
classes being too hard for their pretty little heads
what they think of dress slacks
its all the same
i want them to leave
eventually they do
i wonder what the ones who work full time
are doing
right
now
bicyclists ride past me to and from
as i ponder how to spell bicyclists
a concerned man stops by
briefly that is
to tell me words
and pat my shin
but the stairs await me
standing there steadfast
like a true lover
longing for my return