So Long, Sanity

For all of the wasted clenched fists, the self-censorship of correct and polite, the tame driver smothering the angry bastard thirsty for another fix of fuel injected danger, the seeker who will never find the fire extinguished by a neutered society, and every free being trapped inside the idea of what they have to do, I say, so long sanity.

Fuck youre grammar, your avoidance of the first person voice, fuck your pre-writing, your plot and your work, fuck your manners, fuck your pride and your memory. So long sane writing, you have given nothing but insanity.

Hello taboo, how I miss you. Drink and drive, take drugs, tell people, rip apart others to protect self. Don't care about the starving, about nuclear weapons or the prison system, or making a name or being successful, become absolved.

The sane play by the rules, they are handed loss, but what if they refuse? Deny the obvious, expect positive consequences from negative actions, never remember, never care, never feel, is it insane?

Is poetry sane? Is it art? Is it a short story or a philosophy? It doesn't matter, it will be forgotten, in the billions of minds across the world, these words don't even exist, they float aimlessly through a digital dream world, where nobody reads but everyone sees, nobody thinks, nobody analyzes but everyone knows. Is creating something that never existed sane?

Thought is insane, standing on the ledge is insane, sex is insane, cigarettes and unbuckled seat-belts, all but two political parties are insane, angry black men are insane, so are angry white men, so are angry rich women, and the happily homeless. Christians are insane, so are Muslims, Jews are insane, and communists, and socialists and capitalists, all are six pennies short of a nickle.

So long sanity, I depart from you, though you are nowhere to be found. You've wasted my time, my breath, my tears, my life. You are impossible to achieve, and while others strive for you, I say, so long.

The Fallen Champ

The icepack made his eye feel sick, like the disappointed queeze inside his stomache. No pain could overshadow the crippling defeat. Ten years. Days and days of six hour jogs, thousands of sit-ups, hundreds of healthy meals forced down the hatch, broken hands, pints of blood, tears, and all of the grunts and squints that come with a man’s struggle to perfect himself over ten years, wasted. Ten years of work and dedication all collapsed within as he searched every corner of his mind for an answer to why the lights shut off.

Somewhere old rivals laughed in a room full of beers, pretzels, and outsiders, celebrating the fall of the champion. His mother cried in worry, as men aimlessly roaming Vegas celebrated their big come-up. Every gasp of disbelief coupled an “I knew it” from self-proclaimed prophets of luck and oddsmakers of silence. People who never took a punch struck up the type-writers across every major city, describing how bad his technique was, how he had no foot-work, how he never really fought a tough opponent, how he was too old.

The champ cried, uncontrollably, as tears seared into open wounds and beaded sweat. He knew what was being said, and he had nobody else to blame. There were no teammates to pick him up, nobody else to scathe, no coach making decisions, no pit crew to fix him. The humiliation was his to own, him alone. The loneliest man in the building sat on top of the world two hours prior, and held no pride of himself. He felt the world looking at him, turning on him, doubting him. He clenched his fists, slowly cycling through a swooping rhythm with taped hands, bobbing and weaving the unknown challenger.