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."