REPORT A PROBLEM
Once in while my words run on without punctuation and even when a break would be convenient I often just keep on going on with it just like when I fall in love and I can't handle the wait inbetween meetings or the anticipation of his arrival, or the commas; or the semi-colons that make me stop loving for a just a brief second to put a question mark after some vague and regrettable thing he said in "quotes" and wonder why he hasn't ever used an exclamation point or a good and sure period. Just to finally finalize it.
Jason slammed the door in Jacob's face. He turned around, put his hands over his eyes, and screamed at the top of his lungs. Then, deciding he had something more to say very loudly, he opened to door to a statuesque Jacob and slammed it in his face again. Jacob stood there like he always does. He never comes in, he never says anything, he stands outside of Jason's door so that Jason can slam it in his face for some poetic clarity. Jacob was still Jason's favorite, he didn't like Monica, who called occasionally to be siliently hung-up on.
I never told her about the man on the motorcycle, stalled at a light on 14th and Penn. When he looked over I felt this rebellious streak run through me, and the man drove through my concepts of normality like a knife cutting fast through tranquil water. He would roar off down highways and down corridors and I would putter along, at 35 miles an hour, headed safely home. He revved his engine and it hissed. It didn't purr like a kitten. He was me without my regret and insecurity, with tattoos instead of mortgage payments. I never told her.
She left as soon as she came, trailing behind her beautiful remnant energies of excitement and longing. Everyone in the room loved her for every second they were able to behold her. Of course, as soon as she was out the door she became a ragged and insecure woman, with stray hairs waving in the breeze, and in this form she left behind only confused looks and sideways glances. The men sitting in the room would never realize that their eyes gave her life and their hopes gave her the beauty they revere. Yet they could never love each other.
I hate to whine but I will for you. It's hard to stimulate you properly with all these stimulations coming at me from everywhere. This song is the best by this band, and this commercial is the funniest I've seen in days. The book that I'm reading reminds me of something you were saying, but it's about something else entirely. What were you saying? About the book? The colors on that box of food I gave you are stark and distinguishable. Can you enjoy the food the same without them? Can you enjoy me without all these millions of distractions?
I know this reddish slope leads to the far corner of your left eye, and the very top of your ear suggests a long face. I can make out the dissolving remnants of your eyebrow, tiny pieces rolling off the side. A freckle, a scar, a small indent that catches the light and looks slightly moist. Your dark and thick hair creeps up the side as it goes into some unknown formation near the unseebale top of your head. This picture of your whole face is technically worth a thousand words, but I only have one hundred; one tenth; enough.
You're like thin glass, and I don't know if you'll break when i exert pressure. You're like plexiglass, and when I smash youup you only bend inward to show your weak spots. You're more like a sheet of saran wrap, and when I touch you you cling statically to my hand. You are also like the shiny film in a bubble wand, and you'll simply vanish if I touch you. You're the curved glass of my television, reflecting and projecting, and you are a magnifying glass. While I can look through you, I'll never really understand your nature. Clear conscious.
Wondrous walls of sound slide from earphones into eager ears. Walking by silently he doesn't seem affected by the singer's dreamy voice parading through the beats and off beats. The most memorable part of the song inevitably comes closer, the percussion hinting at a slow build up, still he walks to his own beat changing nothing. Everyone is watching, waiting for him to look stupid. Four men culminate their mood in a crushing crescendo that will ultimately be ignored for the sake of the greater good. Once he's alone in his apartment, he'll show them the depth of his love.
Alice screamed and clutched her breast, clawing and digging into the skin beneath her blouse. Her breath grew short and pained as she fell to her knees. Her fingernails were removed quickly from her chest to catch herself from falling, so blood smeared the ground. She'd been poisoned, she thought, and it only made her veins boil and her eyes gaze hatefully from beneath her painted lids. She began hallucinating and saw a very organized and clean machine ready to take her in by conveyance and remove her pains systematically. First, she hoped, the silver tongs would remove her heart.
Armed by a life filled to the brim with decadence and grotesque overindulgence I habitually point my chemical weapons at the line of willing victims. Walking away stained, the forgotten faces form lines of their own and the deed is done. I realize the horror and disarm myself. Boredom sets in after only a short while watching all the lines of people jumping excitedly into harms way. My own melodrama doesn't compare to the supposed martyrdom of risky behavior. Stupidly I stand in line and wait my turn for the deadly shots, bored and willing to kill for some stimulation.
Screamers are the worst. We get our cryers and our beggars and our disbelievers, but nothing is worse than when someone seems to realize the full extent of the pain about to be applied to them. They just open their souls and scream until I pierce the lungs a little. That at least quiets them. I know that I, being a behemoth red monster with a searing hot pitchfork and a snake's tongue, can't be comforting. But come on people! Did you think a life of sin would lead to some eternal comfort? Sing a song for Satan, won't you?
Nine years old she couldn't figure out why her father wanted to fuck her so much. She can't deny it made her feel special, until the day her twelve year old brother caught them. "Come here Chris, this is how you fuck your sister proper" Chris jerked off while her father made an extra painful show of this, and when chris came on her undeveloped chest her dad just ate it up. Then he kissed him. He never kissed her once. She stood, neither of them caring, and went for the axe. Jealousy is learned just as quickly as betrayal.
Old friend you look so tired. Has life pulled you through the weeds? Or has waiting simply bored you into taking extreme roads to pleasure and entertainment? How much higher can these paths lead us, without leading us straight out? If I offered you a way to return to where we met, on the intersection, would you jump at the chance to see from knowing eyes the folly of discussing (as if we could know) the curves and slopes ahead? Because if you offered me that chance, I think I would plant myself there while you took your curiosity abroad.
It's time to tell me if it's the wind that causes the trees to reach and bend, or if it's the trees? Thirsty for air and uncomfortable sitting still. The sky fills with clouds but are they chasing or following? I need to know because my love is waning, and I don't know if a simple hot breath from your mouth will stir me again. I may have just used you because I was too complacent and docile in that moment. In the act of asking if am I chasing you, are you following me? You can't say can you?
My friend is chaos and her boyfriend, unhinged. She collects her thoughts like a gale force wind and lets them blow. He's simply always blown this way and that. Struggling to see how they both survive, I sometimes feel a gust myself. They have a child, though, and I can see now how there is a design to this. The child has a beautiful newly forming mind that is free to fly around with the wind and changed constantly by it's force. Neither of them see both the ground and the sky, this child could be the death of them.
"Just another deseased youth" the doctor thought as he prepared for his first visit of the day. "No need to feel or learn. Just go in and do my thing. I'm tired and overworked, and if they think I can give out my compassion to every slut and sexual deviant that comes in here, they're wrong. I used to care but it just runs out over time, me, the limited resource." So when he opened the door and saw his son sitting on the chair his resolve was too strong to be taken aback. "Son, it appears you have herpes."
"Change!" the haggard and filthy man pleaded to an inattentive audience on a street mall near here.
Only one person tried to give him a few coins he didn't want weighing his pocket down anyway. "Here you go."
The bum looked perplexed. "What's that for? I don't need your coins, they're worthless!"
The charitable person looked into his hand and seemed for a minute to consider just throwing it all down and walking away. It
worthless. But then why did the bum ask for it? Maybe he was just shouting insane commands at pedestrians daily and they unknowingly obliged.
Near the front of a crowded bus he sneezed, covering his mouth with his hands so that his imagined army of germs wouldn't parade through the enclosure and infect everyone with his allergy. He looked down at his hand, now covered with spit and mucus, and then looked around. That's right, buddy, we all saw you do it. And we're patiently waiting to see how you'll protect us now. I can see his face turn from a deep concern into a state of surreal shock. Where did that come from? My whole social dynamic changed instantly by these imaginary forces.
I stare sometimes into an obvious and ordinary event unfolding itself naturally over a public place. Looking out beyond the situational simplicity for a pattern behind it, I can catch a glimpse of rusted gears and pulleys catching and releasing themselves faster at once and slower than I can imagine. Once I've seen it, I can;t stop looking behind everything, the sprinklers spitting out into the fountain, the tongue behind the teeth that are grimmacing in pain and pleasure. The random song that goes right along with the swing of things. The clock, but that one is almost too obvious.
Two small children play in the yard and one finds an earthworm.
"Did you know that if you cut him in half, both sides still live?"
"That's impossible, he wouldn't have a head!"
"Then tell me, smartypants, which side is the head?"
"I can't tell, but I'm right, you're not."
Two doctors are laboring over the intricate separation of conjoined twins.
"Don't cut there! The smaller child will need that to live!"
"We can't save them both, you fool!"
"Then tell me, are any of your brothers bigger than you? Are
"You can't guess fate! It's all chance!"
I have a condition. I live on the very edge of life and death every day. I'm plagued by my symptoms. You see, it's a heart condition, so that whenever stimulation is sensed it could explode. My ventricles slam tight at the sight of your eyes and the pressure builds up slowly, but unstoppable. It then gets so big it forces itself against my lungs and I exhale. Then all it would take is a smile to cause the explosion to go gushing out between my ribs. Please, dear, don't stop smiling at the sight of my blood and breath.
Hearing his voice and his strange accent makes me weak in the knees, but I want and expect the same thing from him as anyone else. An alternative point of view or a real difference or some personality quirk? The same views my last man had impressed me with, but he must be different. Not like them but more like
. This is the most hypocritical prospective, and if I want anything different, I know I must become something else, expect a change, welcome the chaos. I am unwilling. I'll take his little difference for what it's worth. Practically nothing.
"You niger!" she said without capitalizing it. She even said it wrong, with a soft G sound like a J and a strong I, so for a minute he stood confused. Had she called him some sort of fantastic beast he'd never heard of? Was this a good thing? She just couldn't find the right words to accurately express the depth of her hatred, which, if she had, would have sounded like this: "Soul deprived detached freak of mental nature, how dare you stand there
mispronouncing words! I even missed the race, Cracker!"
Eighteen dedicated and spirited workers took to the project with undeterred visions of valor and success. Only One of them had the qualities that make a leader. Seventeen of these visionaries grew gray waiting for the One to take the the lead, to pull it all together. Before this One had the weight and responsibility of taking them where all these great ideas would take them, he said he'd know which direction to harness this unbridled collection of power. He thought compromise was a pie he could cut into a certain way so that everyone could have One slice.
She looked so pale as she walked into the daylight outside of her florescent lit workplace. Her boss had just given her a pat on the back, a token of appreciation, and it felt more like a nail in her grave. She found her co-worker (not friend) sitting on a bench looking just as pale and undignified.
"Strange how the bulk of time is passed in waiting or regretting our respective future and past failures. Only a small portion of it is devoted to enjoying the moments inbetween on days off and vacations twice a week or once a year."
I said then, and only then, would I consider reconstructive surgery for my massive lump. So she looked at me sideways and said...
"Damnit Harry, You're lump will never gain a cosmic imbalance of residual energy powerful enough to make it into a psychic beacon for all of the lost cats in this area. Furthermore, you could never coordinate an army. You can't even organize your sock drawer. Besides, it would be impossible to armor them, what with all those individually sized mittens and helmets for the variety of breeds. Besides, revolting by killing my mom doesn't seem plausible or effective."
Trust was a word she began to use gradually less often as she cheated on him more and more. Sanctity was never used anymore, though it was used rarely to begin with. They both used to say the word forever to eachother almost every day, but now it's tomorrow or soon. He started this whole schism, this whole affair by saying enough over and over, and then saying passionate and amazing to another woman. He said he was tired and he'd be late. She never said anything for a long time. The one word that could save them is divorce.
She glanced behind her so that whoever was back there couldn't tell she was aware of them. Shadows crawling the way they were, you never could really tell though. She should have been watching where she was going instead, because she would have seen the dead body before she tripped on it. She stood, brushed herself, and looked around in that embarrassed way people do. When she saw what it was that caused her fall, she sighed heavily, knowing that you just can't teach a man to clean up after himself. "I love you honey" she called to the night.
Trained to read the meaning behind the movements, he was able to, get the jist of what the expressive teenager was saying without. He couldn't hear him at all, so he assumed quite a lot, and a quick raise of both arms made him belive that an explosion was involved in the story. He would tell his blind aunt later, "I knew he was talking about robbing a bank nearby. He pointed to it. The two thugs have explosives! They were explaining which way they would escape!" The kids were actually talking about huge fluffy clouds and currents.
My cat loves to lick herself. My friends like to hear themselves. I like to cut myself, so what? One is spitting on herself to clean or cool, I don't know which. One is streaming out conscious thought, to entertain or explain themselves, I'm not sure which. So when I take that razor and make a straight line from the center of my stomach up towards my heart, I'm not sure weather I'm trying to use the slow drip of blood to cool myself off, or to explain some deep seated anxiety. I just love it, So I do it.
The Tip Jar