STRAP IN AMERICA, IT'S 1952

I rolled over into anger this morning. Of course, a lot of people who know me think I'm angry all of the time. It's not true, I like to rock the boat out of boredom, a lot of my criticism is sharp, and sometimes I think of the most socially inappropriate or off the wall statement I can make for my own entertainment.

Today was different, I welcomed the day with a real anger, a real rage that isn't immediately extinguished by whatever comforts of modernity (though the computer screen light itself tried) when I realized I live in the 1950's. Fear, we live in a world of fear, and no matter how hard I try to not invoke Hunter Thompson in my writing, or how much I try to escape the words fear and loathing, it's all I feel and all I see in this world.

Counter-culture in the 1960's was about more than social unrest or political change, it was about crawling out from underneath the desks, putting sunglasses on, in case the nuclear blast was too bright, and actually going outside to experience humanity. All we do now is complain about our bills, feel trapped by our jobs, follow directions from our significant others or our families, and fear the consequences of stepping out of line. We live within the id of a control freak.

You see, if you really pay attention, the 60's counterculture happened but eventually, the 50's won. Both Kennedy assassinations, MLK, Malcolm X...those who tried to change the social setting of that time from the stage instead of the lawn, were cut down. People were experimenting with acid, and while the drugs opened many Doors, the Manson Murders came along, and only left open the door to madness. The Drug War found it's roots, the war against Communism amped up and the nuclear bombs kept replicating.

The 60's were about passion. There were about being fearless and finding what it meant to be human, that's why creativity exploded; ideas were shared, people were gathering to see what each other had to say. But the boots of the 50's came in and let everyone know; bullets would continue to fly, if not into the Vietnamese, into students at Kent State. The 50's wanted fear, they wanted soldiers and they wanted everyone to understand the threat of Communism, to fall in line, to produce, both babies and bombs. Every man was a part of the machine, a part of industry, a line to produce, over and over again until the very repetition and cadence of the factory turned each man into nothing more than another material. And though I try so hard to avoid invoking Mario Savio when talking about my disgust for our bastardized and Fascist form of Capitalism, it's too hard, because just like Hunter Thompson, he nailed it.

So today I woke up full of rage, because all of this History, these events, these social changes and all of the tears, all of the blood washed over me. I opened my eyes and waves of the past rolled unto my body, as if I'd finally crashed ashore from the vast stretches of numbness somewhere between the Pacific and Atlantic. I feel as if the past decade of my life has been stolen or wasted..there is no fulfillment, there is nothing but bills and fear, loathing, and machines and a constant oppression of being told what to do, how much I owe, what direction to go, what time to be there. I find nothing but orders that help me roll down the assembly line.

I'm twenty-eight and feel much older than I should, because the 50's won. All of my friends are married, raising families, in their ranch-style homes or their two-storied neutral colored homes, complete with fire places they never use or wooden decks they never stain. They all smile on Facebook or hash-tag how great it is to be themselves, but they all drink themselves into oblivion, and get entirely too emotional over a football game. None of them have any real or worthy thoughts about ISIS or Ebola, just irrational fear and deep convictions about how they do or don't stand behind whatever athlete or actor is caught in the middle of a scandal...and why it's a first or second amendment issue, while protests are stamped out by the 1950's, and our police are armed as if they are fighting Communism in our own back yard, or Terrorism, or whatever other ism that allots our government the opportunity to soak the Earth in iron.

I am bored to death. Nobody goes outside since 9/11. Occupy Wall Street was a blip on the radar but nothing happened, just like the 60's, Communist provocateurs came in and ruined the cultural revolution before it started. We're just one big family, trying to find freedom and individuality, caught between the loud screams and swift batons of Communists and Fascists. Kent State was a big deal in 1970, but now the cops kill so many people nobody cares. If you want the full attention of America you have to cut someone's head off with a Swiss Army Knife, or gun down a bunch of children. That's what get's headlines these days.

I live in a time where literature and poetry has been murdered by illiterates on social media and viral inspirational quotes, in a quaint font painted over a picture of a sunset. I don't even remember the last time I saw a sunset. The Republicans are becoming so Fascist and the Democrats are becoming so Communist that I'm starting to have a hard time telling a difference between the two. Everyone is afraid to take acid, and if you smoke a joint you just added 30 more days onto your sentence of working at a miserable job. Social change is what's trending, and ideas only exist on General Electric commercials. Music is made by computer noises and not instruments, free love is confused with free porn, and while the Berlin Wall is gone, all I hear in America is people screaming to put up new walls.

This is my rage America, nobody goes outside anymore. Nobody shares ideas, everyone is on medication because they have been told by a doctor who was given that title by the state, there is something wrong if they feel anything about anything. The 1950's won. The Beatles are dead and Apple is there instead. Everything is Eerie, and though I know what colors are, I swear everything is black and white. My loathing is your fear, of everything all the time. The news wants us to be afraid, our Fascist and Communist leaders want us to be afraid, our bosses want us to be afraid, and so do our families. Yes, I loathe it, I loathe all of it, because my biggest fear is to be just another part of the machine. They say you are what you eat, and I've seen how we process meat, and I fear I know where this conveyor belt is taking me. Welcome to 1952.

We've Lost The War on Terror.

Here is rant.

ISIS are using American weapons and artillery, and while our leaders pretend like they don't know where ISIS came from, we just called them "Rebels" a few months ago in Syria, when everyone else in the world referred to them as the Islamist opposition.

These "rebels" were caught releasing Sarin gas on innocents and trying to blame Assad, as a pretext for U.S.-NATO intervention. Now, we act like ISIS has come from nowhere, though they have obviously been trained and armed well enough to take large parts of Syria and Iraq, if you know anything about warfare, you know this shit doesn't just happen overnight.

Qadaffi and Assad both claimed "Al-Qaeda" forces were the ones trying to destabilize their government and create civil war. Both were laughed off by our media...now, both Libya and Syria are completely destabilized, and being ransacked by extremists who want to replace their government with a caliphate (pretty much the same ideology of ISIS)

Want an update on whats happening in Libya? 11 airplanes went missing in a Tripoli airport the other day, strange timing, not long before a pretty memorable day in September.

A few months ago, nuclear weapons went missing all over America, about the same time that Obama purged an unprecedented amount of military leaders. During this time, US leaders began warning of potential "nuclear" terror threats across America.

Speaking of this purge, it's pretty strange how they moved David Petraeus to the CIA, then ruined his public image and effectively neutralized his authority, or how diplomats and generals in the Middle East have been getting killed in rather freak incidents. There have been a string of incidents that has completely flipped our military leadership in the past two years.

One of Obama's big "changes" brought to America is the police state, we have seen in Ferguson, Boston, and other places where large protests or acts of unrest/terror have occurred how police forces in any major city can basically lock down an entire people in the form of military oppression in a few short hours.

While tragedies in Boston and Ferguson needed prompt action, it looks as if the action taken was to intimidate the American public, and let them see the strength of a militarized police power in the case of widespread unrest or protest in the country.

Also, Obama signed a document authorizing the assassination of US citizens without trial, arrest or jury. We saw this power used first with Awlaki in Yemen, during one of Obama's many un-declared war, un-manned airstrikes that have no regard for international law.

Now that ISIS is being rammed down our throat 24/7, and we are shown beheadings on a weekly cycle to instill fear, hate, and justification for war and more death.....

Oh, and we are told now, that many members of ISIS are American and British citizens, today there was a report that more than 100 members of ISIS are American. We don't know where they came from, or anything about them, but we know where they are from and their nationality on individual basis?

Get a fucking clue America, I'm not going to jump to conclusions, though I may allude, but I become more certain every day that the entire global policy of the UN, Russia, and other global leaders is just a over-produced game of fear, used against the human population to control our emotions and lives.

We're all a bunch of suckers, being kept in the dark about the truths of the world and how these events unfold, made to believe everything bad that keeps happening is unknown and unintentional, when every major event in modern times just takes humanity and the growth of our shared consciousness back another step.

It doesn't matter what happens, the end game is war, it is a loss of human rights, it is the loss of cultural identity, it is a guided clash of ideology, or civilization, or clash of anything that brings out the worst in our nature.

Whether you agree that our leaders are the real enemy or not, doesn't fucking matter. Everything you say or do on the internet or on your phone is monitored, they can take that information to find out what you do, who you know, what you buy, and what time they can put a bullet in your head.

We see cops killing Americans every day with no repercussion, we see moves made all over the world drawing us closer to destruction without any shred of Democracy, there is voter fraud to put certain leaders in, money moved to let certain companies create whatever monopolies they want, and constant laws made for our own safety in the name of terror that strip of of anything that made us proud citizens of something human.

The laws are in place to make you disappear without trial, be tortured offshore, or have an entire country ransacked by a private military that doesn't operate under the Geneva Convention.

You are fucked, regardless of your thoughts, whether you are gay, or Communist, or a consumer, or a feminist, or anarchist, it doesn't matter, your fate is in the hands of a bunch of psychopaths. You have no real control over your life, you aren't anything more than a social security number and a credit score to the powers that be, and at any given moment they can unplug you without any repercussion.

So what can you do about it?

Absolutely fucking nothing. But if you need a beer or a toke to calm your anxiety, good luck staying out of jail or getting a job.

Is this what freedom is supposed to feel like?

Fish Out of Firewater

 I'm flabbergasted by the gaseous flubber beached on the shores of my lawn. I used to go outside and enjoy the Sun, but now...now I can smell their carcasses, swelling and bloating. They are dead, but they still sweat, and talk about their favorite television shows. So much for resting in peace.

I'm tired of the shrill of sirens in the night, oblivious to the comforts of my dreamworld, regardless of whatever woman I'm sleeping with. I can feel the high pitch in my gut, a great annoyance pressing into the pit of my sanity.

"Shut. The Fuck Up."

"SHUT."

"THE FUCK."

"UP."

All I hear these days is noise for the sake of noise. When I've taken enough breaths to fight off the anxiety, and finally get a deep gasp of relaxation, my moment is interrupted by someone talking to a dog, or to a wall, or to themselves. Doors slam in every corner of my mind, a chainsaw massacre of my thought process. Every time a song plays, someone has to sing along or whistle to their own tune, butchering the moment.

All I want to do it flee the insanity and run outside, but I'm surrounded by these goddamn whales, swallowing everything without discretion, like a bedazzled whore out back of her favorite club. The sequence from her dress flags down spectators like shiny gills attracting sharks.

There's a fucking television on in every room, a yellow billboard screaming in the face of every color blind man on every road. It's hard to imagine hating the only color you know. That's real frustration, a mind-dulling ache that commands attention, like blue balls sitting in the front pier, woken from a shut-down night only to be kicked at the crack of dawn, deprived of sleep, but force-fed the notion that deprivation is a good thing.

We are all hypocrites, myself included. Always unfulfilled, never drunk enough, never fun enough, it's never extreme enough, the fall is never steep enough, the wind is blowing, but we refuse to listen. I can hear deaf pranksters slamming plastic bins on conveyor belts, blowing out eardrums and laughing as others jump in pain.

I'm told I can't dislike someone who is deaf, or dumb, or short, or black, or Hispanic, or has panic attacks, or went to prison, or had an addiction. I'm reminded how lucky I am, to understand this guilt, and to repent for transgressions I don't own. I know how God must feel, listening to a group of people he created, complaining all at once in his ear, telling him he didn't do enough, he didn't do the right thing, he didn't give enough, he doesn't listen enough. People demand answers from God, people demand service at a restaurant, people demand money from the rich, people demand jobs from the hard-working and drugs from the doctors. People doubt the hard-work, the doctors, the rich, and then people doubt their own existence.

Sometimes I find the fly-swatter.

I don't speak or express motive, I scan every corner of the house and kill without discretion. Sometimes I let the bastards hang from the wall by their guts. I let them dry-out like the whales in my yard. I amuse myself, batting flies out of the air, laughing at their helplessness, and my power. I win all over the kitchen. They shouldn't have come so close. The flies land on my food, they shit on my leg, they lap up their shit with my food and drag both onto my leg. The flies buzz into my ears or my nose, my eyes, or my mouth. Wherever I swat, they return to gloat, riding the waves of rippling air like juvenile thrill seekers. A bunch of stoned, shit-covered surfers flocking to the big wave.

CRASH. 

Hope it was worth the ride. 

The bodies wash up next to the whales. Beached and dead. Beached and dead.

I'm running to the desert, but thirsty in Ohio. Maybe I wash-up in Carolina or crawl to the Pacific. Maybe look to clear my mind, get away from the blabbering, the blubber, the masses. I hear there's a perfect storm, where the blabbering congregates, covered in broken glass and stupid opinions, brainwashed in the toilet, flushed out the drain. The overflow spills into the streets, it floods my living room, but I never drift to the sea. It's Fucking inescapable, I'm suffocating.

Vendetta Silenced

The Sea of Gallows hung over The Dead Sea. Steams of blood drained Jericho's consciousness; children in the slums felt the warmth wash over their ankles. Projectiles ricocheted through tunnels, rich and poor held hands in iron soaked puddles as masses funneled to The Great City. The streets spilled over with rage, a herd of shepherds flowed under bridges and crashed into walls, exposing assassins, sacrificing their lives in an unwavering ho! forward, brandishing no more than torches and robes to the doorsteps of The Moors.

Vendetta, O' Vendetta fell...reduced to silent cries laid before cataclysms of duality growing into the night; beneath interwoven pines, through pits of mud, beyond the tunnel, past low hanging Gardens, under, over, asunder vision, refraction of the word spread from the wild. Rolling clouds of remorse gathered the corpse, gathered the doubt, as jaws drug men to their knees, drops of silence in the crowd froze a moment, gasps suspended in the air. Stone glares. Lost cares. Fear. Fear pushed the moment forward before those left breathing forgot to worship a divine attention demanded.

Now.

The Day The Bombs Fell.

I remember when the bombs fell...in one moment everything changed, not for the better, but for the immediate. Some ran, some fought, died, hid, cried, some turned into rats with chatter or rats that scatter. Before all of these things came to be, there was the dust. Cement collapsed onto and through itself with enough force to cripple lungs within, Earth jumped from it's seat and fled; I witnessed mankind's shared consciousness for the first time within the gasp of a city.

God's tears made the moment to sink in. Heavy rain flooded low-lying areas, downhill alleys carried bloody streams over the feet of people who could only wonder who they just lost.

There was no lightening or thunder to follow the cloud, only changing winds. The gusts took many lives, but everyone knew they'd have to brave it. They weren't heroes, they were just numbers, ones that didn't get called, but sat in line with their neighbors, waiting for fate to be handed to them.

I remember the feeling of hopelessness, hunger, discomfort, and fear. Real fear, not a startled moment, but the kind of fear that can drive a man mad, the type of fear someone can only know when it finally occurs to them, death will knock on their door.

Before The Reaper, before the self-confrontation, and the mental-slide show, the horrors of Society's Mankind, and it's violent decay...I remember the day the bombs fell. I relive every moment before the blast constantly in my mind. I wish that minute never happened, but I recognize it's reality, as punishment deserved, punishment for the sin I'd had made if the bombs never dropped; I know, spoiled in the routine of life, I wouldn't have appreciated the moment as much as it deserved.

I will chase that peaceful moment, in my sleep, through the day, to keep my legs under me, and my mind yearning for the time after, the bombs didn't fall.

WAR WITH RUSSIA: LET THE GAMES BEGIN

Obama just acknowledged the phonetic existence of the words "propaganda" and "misinformation" for the first time. He then used them correctly in a sentence, hinting that he understands what they mean. Sanctions on Russia, pressure on Russia, an order of Ceasefire, and a big soup where "violence" and "separatists" all mixed up in a pot of "I'm never flying to or from Malaysia, ever."

Right before President Obama's speech I read an article that said Pro-Russian separatists had control of the crash site, and on CNN the political pundits pointed the finger on Russians, and said that the Obama Administration recognized any attempt by Russia to recover or hide the black box, would be seen as an admission of guilt, that doing so would incriminate Russia directly.

After Obama's speech, CNN released audio of Russian-backed separatists saying they had "one-hundred percent" knowledge that the plane was civilian. Within minutes of being warned of propaganda coming out of Ukraine, CNN has a direct order from a "Major" to shoot down the plane on audio recording. Coming from the same news station responsible for bringing you this fantastic war correspondence.

If you haven't been able to pick up what I'm laying down, this is how wars start. Nothing starts a war faster than a downed plane, and this one, had a plane full of international doctors working towards a cure for AIDS/HIV. Former President Bill Clinton was speaking at the same International AIDS Conference these doctors were attending. BFD.

Senator John McCain, former Presidential candidate, perennial war-drum beater and ironically, ex POW seems to want Hell raised on separatists, Obama confidently drilled into our minds that the perpetrators of the crash are separatists.

Separatists or not, I'm still asking the question, "Why was that plane flying over a war zone?" Well, it's because international airlines are going green.

So, the question is, "Does this add up to a war?"

I don't think so, not at the moment, but it looks like a storm of disinformation may be on the horizon, and many of us are going to be spending our time doing this.

We do know that Obama has ordered a ceasefire, and an international investigation, and demanded Russia be cooperative. Russia has already been sanctioned for their role in supplying arms, training, and intelligence to militants, effectively disrupting internal Ukrainian affairs.

More or less, President Obama just gave Russia an ultimatum, and I don't think KGB-Gremlin Putin, thinks his Boystown counterpart has the gumption to move. THIS, is how wars start.

The Divine American

You are nothing. Nothing, nothing besides calories, cavities, and calcium; emotion, eccentricities, and ego, skin, sin and sinew...bravado, bone and blisters.

Don't you see? Don't you get it? You are insignificant, unimportant, and so, so very expendable.

Nobody cares about your experiences, your empathy or your expertise, not your love or stories of lust, nobody gives one damn about your lively sense of humor. You are only borrowing your humerus, a handful of fingers and you're holding onto a helpless fight, you aren't special, or the only person who likes hummus.

You come from nothing and there you will return. You aren't the Earth or the Stars, only an illusion of carbon, only a trick of consciousness, and a rather insignificant trick indeed.

There is no Heaven or Hell, no God or Satan, no eternal inferno, no reckoning, no justice. There is only this vile life, full of pain and death, there is no Watchman, no Father of Time, no Steward of the River, no Ghost, no hope. And you? You are a disease, ruining this temporary rock, where a dash of luck and a beam of light let you last just long enough for a few short breaths, from your black-tar lungs.

There is no reason in faith, no reason in believing, and no reason in debating these truths, it's a waste of time, time that will someday expire just like you, and all your goddamned imperfections.

Do you still not understand? Are you blind? You. Do. Not. Matter. You are ignorant, ridiculous, destructive, and quite honestly...completely worthless.

Oh, you have money? I'm sorry, I-I spoke too soon, come on in, make yourself at home.

Newsburrito Bitch.

Newsburrito has been a sloppy mess of prose and half-ass journalistic spats of relevance teetering on the ranting level.

I'm re-dedicating myself to Newsburrito, to do what it was originally intended to, bring forth current events, and a unique perspective on them. The goal of Newsburrito is to get people to think, regardless of how much they want to avoid it.

I'm tired of the self-censorship of outside judgement, I'm tired of a lazy, pathetic lump of human minds that seem to measure all things by accumulation of wealth. We live in a time where people are defined by their bank accounts, and that is the most twisted, grotesque existence that any awakened being can witness.

So, for those of you that do care, about the world, about where it's going, about the truths and realities of where we stand in a global war, one we refuse to call a World War, I will promise well written articles with journalistic integrity with a mix of political and social criticisms. I will try to do my best to keep the two separate, though still on the same site.

For those of you who may enjoy the more creative side to my writing, poetry and short stories, I will be putting together a different venue for this work. If you didn't already know, I spent a year of my life, 10+ hours a day, writing a short novella, so you should be supportive and check that out.

To those of you who don't read, fuck you. I don't have any use for you, your opinions truly don't matter, because anyone who gets their information or semantics solely from television is a half-wit. Sorry for being sharp, but seriously, fuck you. You are lazy, you are wasting a human mind, and because of that waste, you are doing your small part in making this place an ill-informed, shitty, ignorant, and hopeless place to exist. They say that there is no such thing as a stupid question, but you probably ask them all of the time. I don't know what you spend your time in life doing, I really don't, it isn't hard to look at words a few times a day and learn something, we exist to grow and learn learn from the past, our mistakes, new lessons, and if avoiding this really makes you a lump of shit, I mean that as nice as possible.

Oh yeah, and one more thing, if you are offended by anything, this will not be for you, if you are so blind in your nationalism that you refuse to open your mind and look at political stories from a view without punditry or slant, this isn't for you. I would apologize for my language and the subjects to be discussed, but it is people like you that are the main culprit in the self-censorship of artists of any sort to begin with, and because of the disservice you have done to mankind, fuck you too.

Too all others, to those of you who are going to visit and READ, share this. Let's start a discussion, tell people, please, seriously. Putting a well written piece together is time consuming, it really is, please appreciate that. I can't fully express how important to me it is that I'm not taking large chunks out of my day to bring insight to the world for it to go on ignored. Give it a real chance, be a part of this. Give feedback, it helps fuel my fire and keep me motivated, just a shred of acknowledgement.

That's all for now. Things will be rolling out soon. But until then, did you know there are 80 original writings on this site that I have spent five years compiling? Some of it is lackluster, and at times there is a glimmer of really good writing, I recommend you give it a look, especially if you know me and never have, because to be honest if you haven't even given my work a chance at this point, you are seriously an asshole.

Wasting Life

I sat alone, in the dark, at the age of twenty-eight, and I felt the weight of time leaning on my bones and on my mind.

"I have nothing" I thought to myself, wincing at the thought of a hundred dollars in my bank account and a little bright green car I don't like, or own, with it's squeaky brakes and it's goddamn loan.

I sat there in self-pity, and thought about the military, thought about white collars and closed deals, hand-shakes and high stakes, money rakes and busted tables, broken banks and climbing ranks, the money of my peers and countless blank stares into mirrors. I thought about every time I asked myself "What am I doing?" or told myself to "get it together" and how many times I failed to listen.

"What have I done with my life?" another sour shot at myself rang out, as I beat myself up over wasted time and a life that seemed to slip away.

A voice interrupted the wallowing with the simple suggestion of "Well..."

You French kissed a girl from France, threw up all over your pants, fought a man, shook the World Heavyweight Champion's hand, went to a foreign land, made love in the woods, told a Governor how to run his campaign, brushed a horses mane, received a standing ovation, made people from the ages of 1 to 100 laugh heartily, crashed through a barricade, climbed a tree, shot a gun, swam in December, broke some toes, broke a nose, severed a finger, kissed a red head, an older woman, a younger woman, a short woman, a tall woman, a loving woman and a hateful one, you've been a son an uncle, a brother, a cousin a grandson, a friend, an enemy and a leader.

You've followed blindly, questioned authority, broken a window, won, lost, been on a train, on a plane, on a bus, in a boat, on a snowboard, a skateboard, a bicycle, a motorcycle, earned a degree, managed a political campaign, been in a play, on the news, on a show, in the paper, read countless books, written poems, short stories, wrote a book, got the hook, broke it off, fell in love, been kicked in the head, been an arsonist a vandal a vagrant, a manager.

You've drank beers with the homeless and the rich, been arrested, gotten away, seen the mountains, the ocean, a shark and a bear, You set a bee hive on fire, gotten revenge, trained animals, you've been robbed, put a knife to a man's throat, walked away from a car crash, blushed, changed a mind, took a picture, won a bet, flipped a coin.

The voice took a deep breath and said, "I'm too tired to continue, quit your bitching and get on with it, you're fucking twenty-eight."

Something Was Written With Thought

Bogged down in the marsh of insignificance in another March, struggling to deliver a message coded in languages unspoken and lights dimmed by the real, or the dreams far beyond reach, or the wandering eyes numbed by one-thousand bright lights and layers, fluorescent corneas weathered by Coronas and Parliaments, waiting for something that will not fall lest rattled, and a mind not fulfilled but battled.

Freckled or tanned, young or just in time, a woman cannot comfort a man for much more than a night. A real man fights the demons and wakes up alone in night sweats, hoping for the best and expecting the worst, the burnt bodies of saviors and the carcasses of thy ancestors, someone lost in the misty fourth dimension of a fogged perspective, wading through the unknown, trying to learn from mistakes blindly made as others watch on, too entertained by the struggle to lend a hand.

A real man is flesh, huffing and puffing to blow himself, larger than words or actions, the desperate lunge into ridiculous obscenities and despised actions, covered in hair, layer after layer, of falsity and defense, asking for it all to crumble beneath the feet of love.

All they lie before is another broad, broad connotation or broad cunt, flapping in the wind and hungry for the hunt, never a feeling of comfort but an answer demanded, a batted eye landed, and a young heart stranded...aged, ready to shake or soak, blown apart by the coke or the joke, battering valves, washes crashing into the now, eroded by the numb tyranny of sex and booze.

You will lose, the battle never joined, Kings anointed, cowards in the dark, confrontation avoided, did you void it? The clashes that come and the ditches that succumb to the peril of deployed id. 

We read each other like books with no ending, frantically befriending and always mending, relations with those we will come to love and come to lose, tending only to avoid an ending, or the soul's sending to the tabloid of a local shit newspaper, with lists of cousins and names and family and tears, mourning those we never knew quite as well as we hoped we did.  

The search may never end, the answer may never arrive, love may never be found, and the world may never relent, they say to repent, and that our failure is our sin, but win, win, is all we pretend.

Most dreams don't come true, and for those that do, good for you, rub the salt lightly for the majority of us who melt at it's pour, an open sore....or, lost hearts hoping for something more. A breath or a kiss, or a moment of deep breath where something fills our lungs and our hearts with a moment of safety, the long lost feeling or once being told, "it'll be OK" and feeling and believing, with both the mind and the heart. It's a young heart's world, but within a whirl, is slips into the furl, or the turmoil of daily mundane, and begins to spoil, in the hot, hot Sun, in all it's toil, but here we are...asking an pushing, fighting for cushion, waging war on ourselves, just to claim we will do whatever it takes, for a witness to peace, both inner and outward, backwards or forward, we search, we hunt, we starve, we want... 

Intel War.

Your second life has in many ways become more interesting than your first. In any moment you can have any girl you want naked, you can pretend to be whoever you want, in whatever community you aspire to be a part of. In a moment you can buy whatever you desire without leaving the home or combing through market shelves. You can work from home, sell from home, find transportation, create art, all from the comfort of a desktop. 

Computers have brought a technological revolution, there is now doubt, but for infrastructures, secret documents and private information to be so freely passed around and stored, make no mistake, this revolution could be crippled by Contras. In less than a generation we have plugged ourselves in, put everything at stake, for an alternate reality. A smokescreen.

I remember all too well how devastated I was when my first laptop melted down. All of my music, writings, pictures, everything I worked so hard on, gone without warning. Not only did I lose my documents forever, but I lost an expensive machine, one hard to replace. I felt cut off from society in so many ways until I bought a new computer, for the price of a low-end used car. A fragile piece of plastic, filled with manipulated sands and tiny slivers of weak materials, all carefully fused together to project a false reality and sense of comfort or power. 

Last night at the pub I discussed how "I could not imagine college without the internet", and today I woke up understanding how most people in first world countries, could not imagine life without the internet. The notion is somewhat terrifying.

As a society we are in a cyber war. The powers that be understand how empowering the internet can be from an informational perspective, and it seems they do anything in their power to give credit to horrible articles posted by borderline illiterate writers. In other countries, the internet is sparking revolutions and sparking free thought, but not in America, at least not on as large of a scale. Half of the material on major network sites like CNN are just quick disinformation blurbs with poor editing and worse reasoning, and unfortunately FOX and the likes have managed through their age to establish credibility. The middle aged are using the internet as a fast way to ruin their marriages, and young adults for the most part are finding themselves at the pinnacle of entertainment via the wondrous net. Countless, pointless hours on Candy Crush or Farmville, Facebook or other fruitless software. But it is the youth that is truly at risk. I worked for a while at a local YMCA after-school program, and currently work in a restaurant, and see what large parts of this next generation is becoming...mush.

The kids I tried to mentor didn't want to go on the bike path, they didn't want to play basketball or ping-pong, they didn't want to do anything physical. We had X-box's, Playstations, Wii, Nintendo 64, and about any other console you could think of...but they didn't want to enjoy the laziness of social gaming with others. The kids sat by themselves, ignoring any attempt I made to speak with them about life, their future, school, their teachers, anything attached to reality. I'll never forget the strange feeling of seeing young kids so plugged in to personal devices, bright screens never further than a foot from their faces.

Apologists can say "kids will be kids" or "they will grow out of it", and to them I say, you are just as ignorant of reality as these mindless children. This tech is new in the scope of things, I'm still considered young at twenty-eight, and the internet wasn't widely accessible until I was in my early teens. I experienced a real childhood, I met kids from the neighborhood, played games, rode bikes, broke things, caused trouble, played in the woods, partook in all the typical American adolescent endeavors. These kids aren't going to grow out of this phase, they have grown into it.

I judge my peers who play video games for countless hours, it's a waste of time in this short-lived life, and while you may have a "top-100 kill count" on your favorite device, you have actually produced nothing real in the physical, just bragging rights to who is best at diverting  attention from real problems. This gaming culture is so wide, that isn't considered nerdy anymore, grown men who do nothing but game are getting laid, in fact, they are a majority of males in their mid-twenties to thirties at this point.

There is a war taking place for the human mind, an assault on all fronts, sensory overload for most us. We are unable to produce thoughts, find words or obtain information, because we rely so heavily on videos to instruct us, Google to guide us, and Wikipedia to tell us. Imagine if our "laptop" shut down for the first time. An EMP, perhaps a real attack from one of the international enemies our Government has created since we've been sleeping, out in reality, with real guns, plans, economic strife, and political philosophy. We have been warned over and over by top ranking officials about how weak our infrastructure is, how fragile our power grid.

There is a large, worthless population in the United States, they don't formulate their own opinions, they are oblivious to what is going on around them, they are empathetic, they are pathetic. We have an obesity outbreak unseen in human History. It isn't genetic, it hasn't been a part of our DNA for thousands of years of existence. There are people who can't even wipe their own asses, let alone survive without the grid. Building a fire, hunting, building shelter, any of the skills needed to survive out in the real world of nature, are known by few. A lot of Americans would rather die than try to survive, out of shear laziness.

Some of us are on the front-lines of existence, learning Historical truths we were lied to about in school, staying up to date instantaneously on world events, being aware of our surroundings like never before. We are learning how to fix engines, build fires in multiple variations, create food, decipher what we can and can't eat. We are learning how to fight, how to assemble weapons, how make things, how to share. We are paying attention to which legislators are passing which bills, what these bills mean, how they affect us. We are using the internet to empower us, as it should, and how to survive without it if we must. 

In your second life you are constantly spied on, you voluntarily give up all of your privacy without any cares. Your credit, bank accounts, social security numbers are all floating somewhere; waiting to be plucked by any criminal with knowledge of computers. You willingly profile yourself on social media, you tell everyone where you are and who with, your phone and random applications ask if they can access your location and you agree. Youtube wants to link to Facebook and Twitter, with your email and Netflix. The NSA knows who you are, where you are, who you speak to, what you texted, what music you listen to, what your political ideologies are, what videos you watch, what you've learned, what you believe, and who you aspire to be. This kind of intel gathering makes tyrants and generals alike salivate. 

A few years ago, talking about domestic spying made you a "conspiracy theorist", doesn't matter how deep you dug into the facts, how well you understood the laws, how the government spelled out exactly what it was going to do. It didn't matter that protesters were constantly photographed and filmed for facial recognition databases by the police, didn't matter that more and more cameras appeared above traffic lights and on street corners without public consent. It's been the elephant in the room for some of us since The Patriot Act arrived during Bush's reign. We knew exactly what would happen. Wartime surveillance, wartime restrictions on personal freedom. They told us then, these things would be implemented, because we were at war. Our President told us the war could be one-hundred years long, or for their rest of our lives. But still, just speaking about these laws meant you were steeped in conspiracy, or potentially had a mental illness, or potentially were going off the deep end, or potentially a domestic terrorist...just for listening and remembering what you were told.

Enter Edward Snowden. Suddenly the claims of many become legitimate, years after programs were already implemented, and the ignorant continued to play ignorant. "We didn't know". Snowden didn't tell "We The People" anything dangerous, he told us we have no privacy, that we are constantly monitored by the NSA and CIA, he only told us what The Patriot Act already told those who read it, the difference now is media outlets decided to report on Snowden. Oddly enough it was print journalism (a business that is dying) which broke the story. Not our worthless 24 hour news stations, or their illiterate bloggers, that make livings from disinformation or no information. But it makes sense doesn't it? That the historically most honest form of media is dying during the War on Terror, during a war that has held the notion of peace on Earth hostage.

Our Government didn't come forward and have a discussion with America after the media finally did it's job and reported news, they hunted Snowden, called him a traitor and told any country that harbored him it would strain relations with the U.S. The government once again did the wrong thing, like an abusive boyfriend who beats you then says he loves you, right before a stiff right-cross. Our government constantly reminds us they are here to protect us, and then they smack us in the mouth. Occupy Wall Street got disciplined pretty well, the backhand of suppressed speech. 

Bradley Manning released documents about the War in Iraq, and is still imprisoned indefinitely, one can assume, he's been beaten and tortured by some of his captors. Manning, like Snowden, believed he was doing the right thing, informing the American public about the wrongs of it's government. In order for a Democracy to operate properly, should it not be informed?

Manning, has been, like Snowden, seen as a traitor.  A young life IS over because he released a video entitled "Collateral Murder". The video shows the true face of our War in Iraq, or war in general. Innocents being killed by air-fire, bodies desecrated by tanks. This isn't new. Once upon a time when television news mattered, reporters were on the ground in Vietnam, and viewers got to witness what war looked like, they didn't like it, and mass protests ensued. Since then, the government has never made the mistake of letting the true face of war be televised. 

To the average American, they only believe what they see, once again, they are fucking lazy, and rely heavily on video, possibly the easiest medium to contort truth through. Hundreds of thousands of Iraqis haven't died out of the blue since 2004, it's been brutal. Bush and company sold us the war, told us we had to defeat terrorists, that we had to stop them from getting weapons of mass destruction, that Hussein was direct threat, but then they hid the truth, and managed to even hide a war. The private contractors, the Halliburton profits, the civilians death toll, the lack of a real military strategy, goal, or plan after the invasion. Just like the massive surveillance of American citizens, it was all hidden. Maybe on Facebook or Twitter these actions were reprimanded, in our second life, but in reality...there has been no accountability these traitorous deceptions. 

Snowden and Manning didn't give up locations or war strategy, they didn't release highly classified materials, they tried to tell us what is really happening in these wars and surveillance programs we are paying for, we are part of them, we are executioners and participants in the death of freedom we once had, freedom of privacy. Manning, once again was a Private, he didn't have access to much in regards to ground-breaking information, he's as low as you can get on the wire. Our government and President told us these were serious breaches of National Security, and vilified men moved by their moral code, men who only showed loyalty to their countrymen. They sacrificed themselves just to whisper truth in the ear of a Nation where truth is being stamped out. Get back to your second life America, we have reality under control. Plug back in, It's for your own good.

It's hard to believe anything we are told anymore, in the real or second life. That's the nature of war. Soldiers don't know if they are good or bad, or what side of History they will fall on. Anonymous was championed by many for uncovering truths and battling corporate entities around the world in their second lives, and the thirteen members who have been arrested will be punished no doubt to the full extent of the law in their first lives. Our Global War on Terror has turned inside out, or maybe it's just finally exposed what it really is, a war with ourselves, a war with our own identity. A war between our first and second lives.

Steam of Unconsciousness.

Beyond the annoyances of flies, and the constant buzzing of their LCD wings, little motors turning and sparking silicone chips force fed into belly of the fat-man, pissing all over the wretched masses of confusion and arguments, there is the wink of a goddess, or the beat of a snare, striking the right tone at the right moment for the skies to light ablaze and for fireflies to dance, fluttering long enough to breed again and meet the barrel of a mischievous kid's plastic ball bat.

Splattered glow crashes into a dull mass, igniting all that is life before it sprays into something bright and wonderful for a dragging moment, before it's wiped away for the next Sun to be consumed. 

Beyond the wind and the cries of triumph, and the Goddamned flies, where carcasses piled have been ground into dirt, colliding with mercury and rusted into iron, there is the perfection of silence.

What's eternal turns into a second, tears and scream are drowned by the beauty of reality, and there we die, or live, or sleep, wandering or travelling, in wonderment of what is beyond books or theory. 

8AM, take a shower, ride into the day, divine as a grain of sand, read the paper, press the gas, rush to tomorrow. Bathe in the glory, the paper of excellence, and the comfort of society's breast. Here you will be found and will be lost, depositing and quarreling, bickering and budgeting, judging peers and celebrating the simplest things you have conquered. Somewhere a lush is congratulating and an angel is crying, as another who has fallen knocks on your door.

Conquer the world from the inside of your four-door, and become enraged from the rudeness of a random nobody, who may die tomorrow as you wished, for changing lanes at the most inopportune time. Look for the emotion that makes you feel alive, and if you conquer it you may be the only person on Earth who has settled down and taken the bank, insured your mediocrity with a few cheap laughs and a cardboard box holding a fiberglass tomb. 

Twenty-something. Twenty something cigarettes, twenty-something years, twenty something hours and twenty-something beers, whatever it takes to forget the hours wasted or the nights, a bashful grin to wash away the moment realized it could have been spent better, or said better, or better done with more time in bed, or less.

Chess, a part of the game, crumble like a hopeless pawn or hang on, long enough to trap yourself and become a sacrifice who held on too long. Bodies lay at the feet of the King and Queen, hoping they fell for the ultimate win, but the next game begins, and you are nothing more than a lost face in the crowd, mixed onto another square, though the King and Queen, on only two sides, in only two colors, stand again above you, and you take only one step forward, toeing the line of uncertainty.

Flip the board, let the pieces fall and roll, onto the floor and into the vent, a dog may wander by and sniff at your parts, then devour the King and piss on the rest. Laugh, stop playing, stop trying to play, Chess is redundant, and only the seasoned win. The world's most genius player could be buried by the street's pettiest groveler. Kid's can play, but shouldn't, as every move is another battle lost. Nobody wins, nobody loses. Life is a gift, dying is an honor, everything else is a broken heart, hard road, or blind guess, luck will strike and so will squalor. 

Outburst.

I want to pound my fist into the day until their is nothing left but screams and gasps, the terrified glare of "what if" and every bleeding moment that could have been a different reaction.

I want to kill your idols and make peers cry, rage beyond the destruction, reset it all, a pile of rubble and a glistened tear swallowed by dusted and broken blocks, of cement and brick, clearing out just in time for the morning coffee and the no pulp OJ.

Break the bones of annoyances, assault, assault, assault. I want to take the rudest mouth and fish hook it's cheek so everyone can see it. A certain way will be established, and it's mine, and it's right, and in all the arrogance and the glory, and the war, the dust will clear and things will be normal again.

After the bodies are cleaned.

Puzzle Prose.

Matter matters, time matters, space matters. Put under the microscope this can drive a man mad but what's the matter? Behind the confines and padded walls of safety, white picket fences, and the two and a half kids (unfortunately the youngest had been sawed in half at birth) there are things of importance and grandeur. School matters...of coarse the courses matter, and the courts and laws or lobbies for tests and honors of recognition, the regurgitation of the instructor matters, it shows great importance and legitimacy. When Mr. Reaper knocks lightly on your door, recitation of Shakespeare matters, and will resuscitate your life.

Looking down on another matters, because what is unequal is not square, and for the sake of the obvious, there doesn't need to be an explanation of why one man's fortune gives him more worth than another. Liters of blood and sagging flesh bags of bone in man, are measured by worth, unlike every other pile of slaughtered meat rotting on the shelves of the market. To flatter matters, and the Mad Hatter can make the daintiest daisy blush as the babbling spits from his flushed face, and brushed persona. Some green here, a little red there, and all is explained within itself simply by looking, for men in hat's don't need to explain themselves. Not because of assumptive imported ideas, transgressions to be or debates and haggling for the sake of haggling debate are covered beneath wool, or cotton, or style over everything, and this is not worth explaining, because early on, nobody will listen. 

It's boring, it's repetitive, questions answered with riddles are for children, and directions into labyrinths are moves made by pranksters with no sense or respect for time, and being at a certain place at a certain hour, when you are supposed to. That matters.

When you wake up in the morning and everything is seen behind a grid, you must go back to sleep. Layers of squared stitching, overlapped threads make sheets, and bindings, and paper...but they also make vision, all vision, wormholes and dimensions. The finite, fine and infinite matters, each string brought through the eye of a needles, twisted to some maker's liking and speared through the plain, again and again, until sowing grows into lumps and deformity, all to mend things apart, for no reason but to do. Time matters, and must be filled with something, because if not, it's just a waste, of time, and matter. 

Take something from this, take nothing, it doesn't matter to the wide-eyed traveler, so few things can be brought along upon departure, unfortunately for most, what is carried, held on to, and suspended above high waters doesn't matter, for more than a momentary flicker foolish assumptions, aspirations, to achieve, something, so it may all be spent relinquishing, in nothing. 

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.