Sympathy for Apathy? Pathetic.

Wise blind men in tales of old wander without guidance, navigating into the thicket of what beckons the bewildered heart, as those lost in the bright screens of harsh chips squint to decipher daily lies conjured from the mind of a fool's jester. All men are blind in times without kings, where the shrills of drunken banshees stumbling around the Court echo into shadowed timbers and musty brick roads. Regal ceremonies sparsely fill high ceilings illuminated by candlelight, as beastlike men turned braggart cheer and laugh away horrors of blood shed and lives lost, in a time when daily hangovers nowhere compare to the brutal nature of existence. Gallons of sweat moisten tilled Earth one bead at a time, rolling off the face of a sickly man, wasted away to the frame, stuck on the range of unfair debts and savage torture. Primitive is the idea of ownership of life, in a deal struck upon a handshake and stack of paper, fragile enough for ink to bleed and base decompose in steady rain. The peasant coughs and wheezes, living only days beyond the body's ability to wear itself down through disheartening labor, grinding bones, tasting mud, gritting dirt, blistering hands and feet, straining the mind with lost dreams and hope, beliefs unmet by brighter days. Fear of the imminent and punishment for lethargy trumps the peasants will to brace for the inevitable and sacrifice itself for a breath of free air. The same shades of gray, new songs of blue, we give our only worldly gift, consuming our hour, all upon a world turned sour, under clouds covering the frown of a mighty unknown, from which we will always cower, it growls with anger and shame, as we mindlessly give away our only worldly gift, to assumed power or fame, unattainable in the very name, of that which is unknown. The mind of a peasant is empty, their spirit is broken, life within dies long before the clock stops ticking. Swarms of working corpses breed, and feed, off fruits undeserved, and land reserved, for those who refuse to be molded into anything other than the naked and free, servants of nothing outside the smile and wonder of that which is unknown.

The Runaway Dock

Pull apart curtains of fear, let them slip beneath blanketed leafs rustled by unknown footsteps. Let go of the inevitable, shortcomings of our ancestors rest in invisible hands, trembling as they brace fragile twines of the interwoven, rooted in the obscurities of proud tales and grand times.

Shiver not in the face of doom, brandish grins and songs. Laugh, love, let go. You will never win until you let go. Puzzles of knowledge and existence await, lend your hand, solve the riddle, pry open the chest, open the door. You won’t know what’s on the other side, and never will without courage to peek.

Reach the summit, ignore directions, diverge from paths laid before your feet, climb with vigor as you pass outside doubt. You can make it through the storm, look ahead, hunger for triumph, revel in the pain, know that you will both survive and die.

Drift carelessly down the winding river of time, dip toes in the clarity of flow, you will reach your destination, it waits more impatiently every day, make it wait; you are free, until you vanish outward into the great delta.

Money Lust

It's what the fighting's all about, shout, drunkenly wave money in front of bartenders, hoping to buy their attention. The quietest guy with the fattest wallet is the drunkest.

It cost 663 billion to receive 497 casualties in Afghanistan, it cost a dollar to buy six yuan, eighty yen, Elliot Spitzer spent eighty-grand on nude friends. Your favorite baseball team, sitcom, movie, website, road, song, all stalked and interrupted for a commercial, why do something you want when you could be spending money instead of time?

A fourth of all hard earned money is taken by officials who spend it on things people don't want or receive, to put the voter in jail, to force the voter to pay public debt, to make the voter pay the IRS, to make the voter pay for war, to give the voter a DUI or speeding ticket, to tell the voter what they can and can't do, to remind the voter of this, to threaten the voter, to oppress or beat the voter, to mace or tase the voter, to shoot the voter, to convict the voter, to put the voter to sleep, to tell the voter they can't speak.

Tax season, right after Winter, is the coldest of seasons, when people are forced to recollect on their year of money, wasted or invested, fill out paperwork backed by the modern debtors prison, while the nation is bankrupted and busted, while the taxpayer has lost their home, their car, their job, their sense of purpose, their pride.

For an hour of cleaning a strangers fecal matter out of a metal pipe you can make twelve dollars, for playing pretend on a TV you can make twelve million. Twelve million dollars will make girls sleep with you, make people worship you, make people reflect on themselves and wish they were you, though they don't know you. Houses too big to heat, dinners too big to eat, guests too small to greet, money lets you treat others how you wish them to be treated.

It can turn your grandfather into a cosigner, and your cosigner wants nothing to do with you after debt goes unpaid, regardless of the blood, the memory, the bond that existed before the bank turns humans into shape shifters. Money can buy happiness, it can end marriage, it can put a price on human life, it can cause people to kill, it can cause people to enjoy killing.

Everyone wants it, nobody understands it, most people are indebted by it, money has bought slaves, money has created slaves, money can free slaves, the all-powerful paper, falls apart in water, burns in fire, blows away with the wind, its existence relies merely on an agreement that it exists, though we are not always convinced we exist, money will exist after us, though it is us who create and give value to money. Money will bury you.

We spend 70% of our lives working and being forced to do things so we can make enough money to enjoy the other 30%. If you work hard and make lots of money you can retire, after you are crippled, wrinkled, paralyzed and old. When you are too tired to do anything, you have made enough money to quit. People quit a lot sooner, unable to realize they have given up, sacrificed their dreams, their love, their life, for something that is nothing. The very essence of existence handed away for something that does not fulfill, does to create, does not explain or give life after death. Money can be buried but it can't follow you, sell your soul, play the guitar, get some money, spend eternity broke.

Have fun, enjoy your vacation, constantly spending, always lending, sometimes sending, and forever trending. Money, the biggest mind fuck of all, happy hunting consumers and entrepreneurs, ignore your families, your passions and the nature of existing, you can make more money if you just focus, keep working, keep aspiring to fail.

So Long, Sanity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fallen Champ

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

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

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

On A Cigarette Break

In this moment everything makes sense, and ye abandon all that ye been trained by mankind.

The birds have returned! they glide over a man hanging off the end of a cigarette- butt, in hopes it will ground him. They watch over the humming whisper of the highway, screaming and yelping for attention, for any passing drunkard or child to admire their flight.

An Oak tree drapes over the cigarette, breathing in and spitting out it's toxins so effortlessly, as it's voice taps on the smoker's shoulder.

"POP POP POP" a Woodpecker hides beneath the branches and depths of perception, as the awakened smoker hunts for a glimpse of where it barks unspoken orders. Cars and noises from daily planners are brushed away by winds, faint jingles of wind chimes in the distance direct his ears to direct his sight, but the Woodpecker's strikes end abruptly.

"POP POP POP" another taunt vibrates from the glory of the Oak, this time capturing attention from every hair on the smoker, every pore. He has found the Woodpecker, but the sky steals the sturdy bird's moment, as if the bird and tree only wanted to point his direction upward, to witness the power and perfection of God's work.

The smoker's memory struggles to find the last time he simply stopped, and surveyed the blue canvas above for more than a quick moment. Clouds hid above others not chosen for the moment. Distant winds gain momentum, pushing away all thought as the moment seized the individual. His phone vibrates, shaking his loose and empty pocket, careless of outside judgment, he keeps staring above.

A plane glides through the clear sky, as his phone continues to vibrate, it is mankind's world, collapsing on the individual, trying to point him back down, to the reality of finance and work, the glory of engineering and technology, telling him to respect the progress of mankind's struggle through the thick wilderness of nature, telling him to come back, telling him he has spent too much time looking above, telling him to fear above and return to safety and predictability.

The Woodpecker rests silently and steadily on the branch, though challenged by metals and industry, by the moving of dirt and the rational of modernity.

As the bird arrogantly puffs its chest in perceived victory, the individual smiles, basking in the comfort of life, and reflecting on all the petty attempts to steal worship deserved. He is fearless of the day, his internal struggle evaporates as external pressure looks infantile and silly. In this moment, he is free, and grateful for the Oak's doctrine, as the world hangs off it's course, unscathed limbs.

The birds celebrate and dance in space unattainable by the individual,as he ponders if they screamed for attention, or only belted joy and celebration, reveling in their own freedom without care of judgement.

Memo: The World Ended on Saturday

For the sake of baseless hoopla last week, the world was entranced by another apocalyptic prediction, by a man who touts no more special powers than being elderly and fatalistic in his views of the Bible. May 21st, 2011, the world ended, just as it did on January 1st, and just like it will December-twenty-somethingth 2012.

That will be the third publicized hocus-pocus brewed through the popular believes of those who really have nothing else to look forward to besides total global destruction, the unleashing of Hell on Earth, and mass disease, death, and suffering. Who wouldn't be psyched? Society is the most bass-akwards it has ever been, when people get off to the idea of human extinction. I've read the books, and not just the Christian ones, and few times do I see Jesus, God, Allah, Zeus, any of them celebrate the demise of people like people do. Most of the time History and fable alike show us the repeating theme of, "I am my worst enemy". Man is both a suicidal and homicidal maniac, Hell bent on creating fear and raising tension, perhaps that is why there is a tick in the public pulse to pray for the end in this generation. Maybe people just want to be put out of their misery.

There is no reward for being cowardly or submissive in this world or the next. I've never seen those who beg for pity rise to any occasion, it isn't in nature or God's code, and I've been paying attention.

If you believe in God simply because you want to be special, don't even kneel. If you think going to church once a week and listening to another human tell you about God, then wake up every day and go on about the rest of your life in routine fashion, you missed the point. Don't tell me about the destructive force of God, or his hateful inferno that will burn "faggots" or sear the insides of those living in sin. Save your breath, you missed the point. Take the hate, the sense of superiority, the feelings of destruction and turn them on yourself, because you aren't making the world a better place, a realistic place, or a place worthy of any holy entity's surveillance.

We are now a people of lazy patience, waiting for something greater than us to arrive, ignoring the wrong before us in our daily lives, taunting the forces of nature, tempting the fate we don't even take time to analyze.

I don't go to church, and I can't claim to have ever read the Bible in it's entirety, but I do believe salvation lies within, take it how you will, just feel free to keep it between yourself and God. Instead of living in the shadow of doom, masturbating at the prospect of widespread death throughout the world, make yourself useful enough to at least add a shred of positive energy into existence. "Live every day like it's your last, learn every day as if you will live forever" It's powerful sentences like these that drive the human spirit and inject us with a sense of wonder about the things hanging above, don't celebrate the prospect of a death a majority fear too much to confront, and there for live irrationally.

Every time an end of the world scenario heats up, I don't look forward to a bloodbath, I reflect on my life and self, then wonder what I could do better, what I would regret never doing, and that usually makes the next day a lot more meaningful, especially when it's still there. I don't fear the end, I don't celebrate the end, I simply celebrate now and know every moment that passes before me ends forever.