In the early days, I never knew much about anything. I asked questions, but was usually pacified with T.V. and junk food. My favorite thing to do was to take Styrofoam boards and bust my head through them like the Karate guys. I'd take the fold up card table chairs out of the coat closet and set 'em up on the front sidewalk of the boulevard. Then I'd place a foam board across 'em, (via a refrigerator box I garbage picked down the alley) and let the whole neighborhood see me bust it up with my head. Little balls of the foam still emerge as anthill waste till this day. Dramatic at least. I always wanted to be a show-off and people noticed me all right, I just never noticed myself.

I loved girls from afar. It was easier to have an infatuated crush than to perpetuate an American rite of passage. Love was an idea to me in my teens, I thought it would be something earth shattering, and it was. The was, was just later.

This love could be a manifestation of spirit, and then I think this might all be that way.

Some sort of existentialist impressed me with words when I was in high school. I thought to myself about consciousness and realized I was and knew that I might not be someday. Death was a tough gnocchi to swallow, but I did it like a champ. The realization of the manifestation of the euthinization of the American perception is like listening to Jesse Jackson speak. Living outside the self-love was wreaking havoc on my integrity. I slapped my soul and told it, "it was better than living in the belly of a whale". My soul rolled and tumbled in the abyss of philosophy while the rest got to the bed spins. Fate sucked me up like a storm and settled me in the wake. I was in love and alive with perspective and promise. Failure begged at my doorstep.

Abrupt change in ideas and reality occur.

I killed two mice and maimed a third tonight, slapped down a few drosophias to boot. The fruitflies are the steely green type that hop like twitches and buzz saw my wine fumes. The mice are an entirely different sort, robust with sharp teeth, book eaters. The familiar "THWACK", brings an eerie relief followed by an aftershock of realization that more squeaks and scurries rattle in the wall. The deads don't bother me much, but hearing them twitch in the trap, dying, the act of death thrashing the wood and wire snare on the Linoleum. I don't care for that. Of course, that unfortunate incident when an honorable escapee from one of the traps drug his bloodied body to the final resting place of an open puzzle box was sad. I had to peal the pieces off the body and wash 'em with a rag so I could finish the bridge on the picture. Poor mice.

Bragging about how great life is.

The sullen wrinkles on the mans' khaki pants flattened as he stood from the wrought café table. The cuffs were frayed with ginger care, draped over the laces of his sport shoes. He squeaked away with an old rucksack over his left shoulder.

My friend P. S. shed his trust fund and has become a minimalist. I try not to tell folks about the trust fund stuff, because it doesn't matter. Right? The minimalist stuff, I tell everybody, because it's interesting.

A list of P.S.'s possessions, not including the usual toothbrush and clothes etc.

  • One bowl
  • One set of silverware
  • A 2 quart pot w/ lid
  • A chair
  • A guitar
  • A foot locker/trunk
  • A radio
  • desk

"P.S. has unplugged his refrigerator. Can you believe it?" I ask my friends.
"Oh-mi-god, does he have a bed? Some girl with big tits and a new car asks in disbelief.
I didn't know if he had a bed. Surely, he wouldn't have created a makeshift "nest" out of old quilts stored neatly in his foot locker chest. He has countered the loathsome consumption and subsequent waste of his country with abstinence. He is a model of social protest. He had to have a bed. I broached the subject the next time we spoke by asking him if he had a pillow.

"So, do you even have a pillow?" I asked.

"What do you mean by pillow?" He laughed.

"Lemme put it this way, do you have a pillow case?" I laughed back.

"Nope." …

Love hit me one day when I was riding my bike around Lake of the Isles. It was storming out to hide my tears and I could barely see the paved path ahead. Raining Cats and Dogs, God's bowling and the sweet smell of summer innocence cliches. The only thing I could see was the heartache for all the loss and anger that crumpled inside me for this whole life. I peddled with cadenced sobs until I decided to stop. I rested my vroom machine on the knoll near the lake and sat down in the rain. Feeling ridiculous, I walked to a nearby bench. I sat until the rain ended and the springnightsettingsun made green shadows everywhere and the carp bubble breached in the dusk, misty air.

My anger is a resounding tapestry. I abhor angels for giving me this go at existence. Perhaps I chose this path and influence the series of events that will lead to a finite resolve. I may share in the blame. Forget not the unmoved mover and the strings he pulls, forget it was even a thought.

Each movement comes to a halt, a waiting catch. Time spaces a moment in words, reflecting a mirror of mirror lasting illusion. If you want to see, just look away. You must be weak to find strength.

When I was about eight, I used to race home from school and strip down to my whitie tighties and clothespin a towel around my neck and run through the house over shag carpet feeling like a super hero.

I come on too strong with girls 'cuz I have nothing to lose. I'm dying and I got love to give. Usually, I get shot down or don't have the courage to muster a howdy. Girls like confidence? Not when yer a thirty year old, bald, skinny, pale dude. I like a challenge; I'll set up on one hottie after another until one finds me endearing, then I'll woo her till I get scared of making a move and make dinner instead. I'll dance the night away and get 'em drunk on wine, but I'll never ever find love.

What becomes of the broken hearted?

I know I've got to find
Some kind of peace of mind.
Help me please.
"

In this land of broken dreams, I wish for revolutionary idea and movement. An awful task to shed repose of guilt and comfort confronts. I want it to be better. Going to places far away and long ago I had an idea. That's all it took.

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