The Jester Courts.

I can hear myself grinning, the stretched lips of a careless fool with a heavy heart, caring too much for it all, and left on a paper airplane, malfunctioned in its first fold, for the wonder and amazement of the anticipated flight before the swirling joke of it's pathetic route softly lands on a cold wooden floor.

Paper-cuts and splinters, the best case scenario for a crash landing, pick it up and use some loft, and always keep this meal's fortune tossed or tucked somewhere where it can be found again, when the message really sticks to your gut.

Somewhere between shame and joy, let go of the wheel and let the pavement guide you through it's grit, but do not meet it head on, swerve and dance, loosen before the blow, and laugh the whole time.

Life is hard, loving is easy. You are the easiest thing I've found in this world, and the simplest wonder, and I'll wait patiently, fluttering like a clown in stupor, smearing my paint on every corner and rug, stumbling through every door on my way to you. God dammit...a life without you is blasphemy, and so yes, I'll curse and jump and lose myself in the moment, and know my idiot well, because I am a fool with good intent, and I will not relent, in the race to hold you smile.

Beneath The Rib's Eye and a Cake of Crab.

He left at a time in the morning where his drunken nights usually ended, a coffee and GPS system geared to swoon, a mentality shifting past morning traffic and an accomplishment made to find the mountains of Appalachia after a well rested night forced before the Sunset.

His car was too beaten, too rusted to drive, so he took the newer model of his girl's, who took a newer model of a man in her bed as he sped to the interview. He made it to the capitol where forefathers bled and wrote and read, the History of their origin turned a small town into a clustered metropolis.

His accomplishment of the day was making it to a small diner just off the shore, next to an Amish market, outside the heart of America, in the middle of nowhere. He ate two crab cakes and drank some more coffee as it helped him conquer a ten hour drive in only eight, he was ahead of his own time and his own interview. He found his destination as he sat amongst locals and listened in on their conversations, similar to ones he knew in Ohio, supplemented with real crab cakes instead of real bad catfish from his local lake.

She told him to be careful with the car, to not drive like an idiot, and he was in total control at one-hundred and twenty miles an hour through the mountains, as unmarked State Patrolmen paced beside him, making eye contact long enough to know not to bother, that he had somewhere he needed to be, and so did they.

He had a glimpse of the memorials, and sat on a bench waiting for another man to tell him what would happen with his life. The man asked him if he could "suit up" and made a poke at his newsboy cap, wrinkled slacks, and messy half-Windsor, tucked beneath a gray and grained vest.

"This isn't laid back Ohio, you need to dress accordingly" He said, expecting the young man to wear a suit in a car for fifteen hours. In ten short words he was delegated the job, the man just wanted to see if he was crazy enough to make the drive, so he presented the next challenge.

"Be in New York in three days, you can live on my couch if you need, and you will get paid."

He sped like a demon against traffic, and broke a dozen traffic laws in every school zone in his battle to escape D.C. He was told by a friend who lived in the city it was impossible to commute past four, and his interview ended at three-thirty.

"I'll be out of not just the city, but the state of Maryland by four" He thought to himself, as he knew he succeeded at everything else on that day, and somehow did, without arrest, though he knew he should have seen flashing lights hours before.

Just as illegally as he arrived in Maryland ahead of time he arrived back home, for a celebratory shot at the wood-laden steakhouse he worked for meager means, just after a mutual friend picked up his girl's car at a neutral lot, as she lay beside a new man.

"I made it" he exclaimed, and bragged about the adventure he would soon embark on to anyone who would listen, and his friends cheered his victory and wished him the best.

He went out that night, and every drink coupled another memory of each one dear he knew for years. They talked about where they'd been, where they would go, and passed the bong around one last time before the world changed. The celebration went long into the night, and every girl at the same dank bar wanted to hear about his trip, and the man he would become. He was on top of the world, for just one night, someone had won.

The young man woke up the next morning, and looked at his rust-bucket vehicle, then looked at his dog, and suddenly New York sounded dumb, and so did the couch, and the money. He didn't make the drive, he didn't return the calls. He thought to himself, "fuck you, and your suiting up" then he returned to his meager means and serving tables in the wooden steakhouse, but every time he bit into a bloody ribeye he thought about the taste of fresh crabcakes, and the place he stopped for a moment to reflect on it all, the place he only arrived with time to kill, and how through the steam of burnt coffee he felt at home, next to the Amish market, in who cares Maryland, population: A Handful.
 

So You Want to Die?

There was a time in life when you were in control of it all, you were a promising young man, with the world in front of you. You commanded reality, and joy seeped through your pours, at a time where poor didn't matter, because you guided reality and steered it to your liking. Poor and potential, only temporary words to kickstart greatness to be unveiled.

You were in the driver's seat of endless potential, the word itself was a badge of honor, measured by the lazy description of "so much" by those who witnessed the flame you carried. The embers of control boiled your blood, everything was such a rush, every minute a celebration of what YOU would become, the promise of YOU rushing to blossom. How stupid we are in our youth, when we know it all.

One day colors became obscure, and potential became a dream of the past, a reflection of the days of youth, everything was a blur, or an enslaved thought, to what could have been and what never will be, and in these days you clutched to thy endless knowledge, and thy fire, and THY sense of worth.

You learned about the world, and how dark it could be, how wrong things were, and how you would change it all. You always wanted to put the pain on your back, to carry the burden so others never felt the pressure of sorrow and madness. At times, you prayed to any God who would listen, to let you, and all your strength carry the load, too proud and too strong to succumb to weakness and the like.

And when you fall short of your dreams and aspirations, the fairy tale of a child phenom who shakes mankind and resets the scale of right and wrong, you want to die, to put the empty and worthless to rest.

"Well I should kill myself?" You'll say, because the world is bitter, steeped in commercialism and "Pop", and all of the people, wasting space and wasting minds will not listen, and will not bow, to the prodigy of you, and the greatness you bestow. The mediocrity will sicken you, because in the land of legends, people fall short, and you realize you live in times of dullards and pawns, those begging to be slaughtered without any knowledge of self or the power of the mind.

And whoa is you, and all of your misery, dealing with the terrible nights in heated rooms and endless feasts. And pity yourself for the horrible nights you spend smoking pot or drinking away all the pain. How merciless this God must be for you to suffer intellectual nights describing the mentality of man the the music that perks his ears. What a miserable existence it is, driving cars and chasing girls, sparking nuanced religion and debating the economic fundamentals only the rich knew how to spell only a few generations ago.

And whoa is you poor soul, in your ability to connect to a stranger across the world in the blink of an eye, and the terrible moment when you realize you can learn an alien culture overnight, or teach yourself a language, or learn thousands of years of History through your ancestors eyes, and find any answer at the tip of your tongue with the click of a mouse.

So die, and die you should, because the world will not recognize you as a great thinker, as a Shepard among the aimless flocks, same in the flesh but empty in their souls. Who could bear a life where you are the only one who is right about everything and has seen it all? Oh misery! Medicate and die, die slowly, kill the pain and let it all turn black in a romantic and perfect moment.

Race to the place where the is no God, because he has been dis-proven, abandon free will for the comfort of darkness and the infinite knowledge you hold. Oh you will live on, because your mind is so great and the world to small, you are infinite, and you know it, but nobody else does, so walk in eternity and perfection through the welcoming of a bullet, or a rope, or the thin slit up the arm's river.

What a terrible life, and it must end. The soldiers and the sick, helpless rape victims and the children without parents or food, who have spent every day thirsting or hungering for a day to live and not slowly die, how easy they have it, and how hypocritical they are to stay alive. Prisoners of war who hold on the face of a girl or the promise of a fresh breath, how wickedly they deserve to live and you to die. How harsh this life has been to you, modern bastard.

The stories and the adventure, it is all so fake, it's all so unreal, and all that exists is pain then death, so face it, because you know this is right, because you know it to be true.

And they will all weep, and wonder what could be done. Thy father will never forgive himself and thy brother will live the rest of life in misery. How they deserve to wonder for their rest of their being what they could have done to change thy path and to better thy world. The aching heart of a mother decades later, crying for days and days, she will get over your death, until she doesn't, ever.

How important you must be to ruin the lives of those who love you, because you are so un-worshiped, by them. By God, how they deserve the live every day in the pain you feel, and question themselves like you question yourself. God dammit they deserve it don't they? They deserve the burden you created and the mess you leave, God dammit they deserve it all, because they cared for you the whole time, even though you didn't care for yourself.

So die, and die you should, you selfish lump, because you are afraid of trying to live, and taking the chance to be what you are, and what you were always meant to. We all die soon enough, but don't take your time, because if you do, you might be convinced life isn't so bad after all.

Solitude

There's a place unknown to most, and few seek, the comfortable breast of solitude; between the frosted mountains and mist laden hills of nowhere Ohio, or nowhere Wyoming, or Nowhere, Anywhere, something can be found or witnessed, if only for a moment. We change lives, change friends, and time, time we try to catch, or freeze, or understand, or change, but in this moment we let go. Lay down and roll in the grass, let go of describing the blades and dew and do, and be, and let everything around you be, as you only hope ultimately to left be and free.

The world will operate and turn and hurl into another time or another place, with or without you, so just for a moment let it run and stop the chewing or the spitting, let the irritation numb you, you will be soothed. In this moment do not tire, face it, live it, and do all your mind can to capture the time where vision is clear.

Drop the "I" or the "me" for one instant, and let a string of the ball unwind in your palm, some things cannot be described, regardless of the editor or deadline, the impression or message, be present in solitude. So many fears of loneliness, so many tries and cries for attention or witness to see what cannot be shared, only filtered through the fogged eyes of a restless heart.

There are events and actions, dreams and the like not meant for others, nor mentioned. The door is not infinitely open, so do not welcome others in, do not ask them to join, their presence will carry away the purity of the moment, so grasp and hold on as long as you can. It does not need to be written or understood or defined, this is absolute failure of a writer and redemption of a mind. We cry for something to reach down and touch us, to caress what ails us, but we run, hoping to find a commonality or a shelter from the unbeknownst workings of the very deity we beg to see. When the veil is lifted partially, we cower and hide, then peak our heads out again, hoping for the sensation to return.

Know this moment and bask in it's oddity, in the peculiar feeling of being alone, and bravely greet the message you were only meant to receive. Every day we ignore these moments, and try to explain them, or remember them, only to find they have moved on without us, but know that it was there in time, and so were you, then look ahead with wonder and patience for the next breath of life to pass through.

Pigs Off The Wing

Democrats, Republicans, Libertarians, Communists, Socialists, Tea-Party members, Working Families Party, Conservatives, Liberals, The Left, The Right. Anarcha-feminism, Mutualism, Platformism, Autonomism, Maoism, Marxist, Juche, Neoconservatism, Agrarianism, Monarchism, Fascism, Bioregionalism, Zapatismo, Agorism, Internationalism, Zionism, Theocracy, Dominionism,  Participism.

It's a Cluster-Fuckism. People can't even agree on definitions of their own socio-economic ideologies, let alone issues like legalization of guns, drugs, sex, books, words, hate, or anything else that attaches itself to personal freedom. Regardless of how morally correct one's individuality is, it's one of the few things we are born with, freedom in the absolute. Freedom to die at any moment, freedom to follow prophets, or the freedom to be the biggest piece of shit the world has ever known. From the moment we are born this natural freedom to merely exist is stripped away. We are taught the ways of the world by our parents, and as we become adults ourselves, we realize adults don't have all the answers simply because they are seasoned...they can seldom even provide one answer in it's absolute. We are indoctrinated through school, teachers, social norms, peers, television, etc. until reality becomes a constant onslaught of outside forces affecting and changing our minds. It's a constant assault and conditioning, with no end game. A $12 movie has been written, staffed, and conjured with the one goal of getting the consumer to buy that movie, but the symbolism, story-line and characters may damage a consumer permanently without intent. The human mind is fragile, it's something that after thousands of years of existence, we still can't comprehend, in many ways it is more alien to us, who control our own minds, than the depths of the ocean.

The volatility of modern political thought is not just a clash of civilizations or ideology, it's something more basic and not so fixable. We have dug ourselves into not just one hole, but many. We see pretty evident laws in nature that are explained by Science. We see in our daily lives that every action has a consequence, some good and some bad, but any action, puts something into motion. Our political moves domestically, our wars abroad and their affect on cultures we don't understand have all had lasting affects on this global society. Things have been put in motion without any real knowledge of what will happen as an ultimate consequence.
Our overly-complicated economic trickery has turned other nations into copycat economies, which have delineated so far from actual worth and trade, that the beautiful simplicity of economy and the merchant has now turned into an uncontrollable monster. Frankenstein economy.

I believe what we are seeing now across the world is a culmination of something we don't quite understand. We are almost instinctively dismantling society, all of the chaos, frustration, anger, corruption, all of it is reversing and destroying the post-industrial world. There are riots in Europe as their Euro collapses and entire countries are becoming enslaved to their debt. America is sinking into the ocean slowly, as the Middle East is in regional upheaval not seen since a post-Imperialist world of the 1960's. China and Russia only look unified in these times because they have been imprisoning political dissidents and making people disappear before it was the "hip" 21st Century thing to do.

We have lost ourselves as a people. Before the industrial era things were simpler, families were closer, we more actively survived the harsh nature of existence, there weren't people simply paid to do everything. What percent of this population do you think could go off, build a home, routinely make fire, hunt, garden, and fish to survive? Not just for a week or a day, as a way of life. We have turned ourselves into a helpless mound of flesh, that has everything and wants more, we pay no attention to things that matter in existence and dedicate all of our time to pop-culture and the lives of people we don't know, who generate money but do nothing great to move us forward as a people. It is unnatural, everything is so fake, and the frustration building is more than political differences, it's more than a jackass and a fatass arguing politics or red and blue. There is no Revolution, for that, there must be a majority in agreement, and that is nothing more than a myth these days. The only silent contract we seemingly agree to is self-destruction, and that is our Revolution. This is an upheaval of society, it's an overthrow of the shackles of Leviathan, and any government, any law, anything keeping us from tearing our world to pieces. To some, this may seem like a negative perspective, but to the Anarchist, it's quite uplifting.

.............Be? Cause. One is Guaranteed.

Coarse brick, painted over for a quick fix, but rust bleeds through the porous and forced adhesion, bound to crumble and be forgotten, touched for a moment and remembered for a life as the finger and thumb grind against grooves of original prints; the mind relaxes and all collapses without fear, without the sentimental grasp of memory or time.

Ask to be remembered and you shall, remembered as a jackal or jackass, a scornful beast or a lustful dud, a dude, crude, finding a rhyme for whatever it takes, committing a crime, raising the stakes, to matter. A lump of matter can't be forced to matter, it just is. Bouncing around, creating noises, gaining attention later unwanted, and judgement unneeded. With the right tone or clamor you could "make it", and good luck defining what it is you have made, because eventually, what matters, won't anymore.

Stop writing and read, stop talking and listen, stop fearing and bleed, stop listening and lead. Exist, feel pain, find comfort, let someone or something sooth you, because your anger and your whiskey won't release the tension of brick walls, cement mixed with sinew and grit. The cracks and pulls can take a break, the breaks and scars have built high enough, let them fall.

There is no point, no reason, no message meant to be combed through, and there doesn't always need to be, just let it be, just let it be. Breath, stretch, touch your surroundings, be present, just feel. It isn't always for entertainment, and there doesn't always need to be a point, there are enough points and words cluttering the air, so take it in, and let it do what it was meant to. It happens with or without explanation, or coaxing, or any of the other desperate attempts to let it be known. Breathe, the action itself is greater than the imperfect words you shuffle through to describe it. "But if I don't do it people won't see". You can lead the blind across a road no and again, but you can't restore their vision, hold their hand, take a few steps and walk away, especially when they aren't blind, but refuse to open their eyes.

Too much time wasted, looking at the screen, "what does it mean?" Someone will see, someone will say it was a waste of time, someone will be pleased, and someone else will try to figure out the writer while skipping over the words, good for them, it doesn't matter, it isn't even matter, just a blip, some imaginary way to showcase imagination, a .com version of paper that will fade even quicker.