Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Internal Inferno

I'm a contained explosion,
Invisible from without,
A raging fire,
That refuses to be put out.

But there's a fathomless
Chasm of sadness,
That I wish would just swallow
The madness.

Because this dichotomy trapped within,
Is threatening to win, and skin
Me alive, there's nowhere to hide,

Not when I myself am the sin.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

The Lesser One

The blank white is a 
of my inability to 

Two selves split
one self is much

Perhaps it would be 
If that self had

But it remains a harsh
of things of which I'm

Five shots of 
and half a bottle of

A bruise of 
A mark of my

And silence is the
of keeping hold of my 

Want to burn that self to
wash it out with the 

Saturday, February 27, 2016

Mental Vomit

Everything matters and nothing matters. All simultaneously. There are moments of brilliance, and moments of realized regrettable idiocy. In an instance you are everything, and the next you are less than nothing, a spec of dust, nothingness floating through a sunray on a miniscule dot in the vastness of nowhere. We are so serious in our intentions, we forget about why we even care. Our imaginations are not something to regret, without imagination we would have nowhere to progress to. Inspiration is fleeting and fickle, If it dances upon your brow, grasp at it, fling it down, and press it into paper or string it up on a bow. We gain slowly through separation, and quickly through unification.

Wednesday, November 09, 2011

The Globule (part 3)

There was no question. I was going to pick it up, lift it near my face and peer upon its’ vulgarity.

I got myself some plastic gloves and put them on. I was ready.

I looked down into the sink filled with regret for something I had not yet done. The globule had slid itself under some food debris in the very bottom. It leered up at me, mostly hidden.

I slowly reached down into the sink and brushed the debris from it. It was soft and squishy as I pinched it into my hand. Its’ size surprised me. It hadn’t looked that big when it fell. I was expecting a giant loogie at most, but this was something far more wretched.

I brought it up close to my face, as close as I could stand, then immediately lowered it back down a bit as I processed what this could possibly be. I was disgusted by the fact that it was still in my hand. My first thought was that it looked like a bit of after-birth. It was pink and fleshy. Why was I holding this? A chill overcame me and I flung it back into the sink with resolve. It must be washed down with the other junk. It was filth. It was vile.

I turned the water on to its’ full pressure and quickly glanced at things washing down the drain. I felt as if it might infect me if I looked at it too long. I turned the water off and walked away. The gloves I was wearing were quickly thrown in the trash, then I scrubbed my bare hands with plenty of soap and hot water.

I thought I must put it out of my mind. I questioned why I even decided to examine it in the first place. What a disgusting thing to do. I went back to work.

I got back into routine, helping customers, restocking, cleaning. I regained my comfort, forgot about the globule. But eventually I made my way back to that sink.

I was going around with some new gloves and cleaner, scrubbing all the sinks like every night. I got to the steel kitchen sink and found a few inches of water resting in the bottom. “It must be clogged.” I thought.

The water was a murky gray and I couldn’t see the cause of the clog, so I reached down in and felt around the drain. I swirled some particles out of the way and the water began to ebb. I waited and watched as the bottom of the sink was revealed.

A choking horror overcame me as I spied the globule wet and glistening, covering most of the drain. It hadn’t washed away! It was still here! I must be rid of it. I went to reach for it, but stopped. Gloves were not enough. I walked to the paper towel dispenser and tore off a square. I strode back to the sink, determined.

I folded the square to create layers, more distance between the skin of my fingers and the perilous soft pile. I peeled it from the drain, making a horrible face. I nipped it into the paper towel firmly, turned and flung it into the trash. It mustn’t remain inside.

My hands protected by gloves still I hurriedly tied the trash bag closed and lifted it from the bin. In a state of calm panic I strode to the backdoor. Heart pounding, I clopped my way down the stairs and headed across the parking lot in the darkness. It was brisk and I saw my breath puff out before me. I imagined the globule breathing slowly, warmly inside the bag I carried. My pace quickened and finally, I reached the dumpster. I lifted the lid and heaved the bag into the dank blackness. The bag echoed a loud thud.

I would not be a part of this thing, this globule.


The Globule (part 2)

It was ten after, twelve after. I acquired some new ideas. It was twenty after. Dana gave up and left with boldness.

Finally I had some time to dedicate to cleaning. Cleaning dishes, tables. Taking out trash, recycling.

I got to the glass recycling and began routinely rinsing the bottles before I tossed them into a large blue bin.

I picked up a big green bottle. I held it under the running faucet, tipped it and poured it’s contents into the deep, steel kitchen sink. Water glugged from the bottle in spurts. I held it completely vertical and watched the liquid gush out.

Then it stopped.

I could tell from the weight of the bottle that it still had quite a bit of water in it. Why did it stop flowing suddenly?

The green bottle drought lasted perhaps five seconds. Then a most revolting thing occurred. A mucousy globule slipped slowly from the opening and plopped into the sink. I froze in a state of absolute disgust. The muscles in my throat contracted. A sickening tingle swept across the entirety of my nerves. My eyes focused intently on a patch of wall. I swallowed roughly, inhaled slowly and collected myself.

I wanted so badly to leave it, disregard it as nothing, but I had been so instantly intrigued, though I had only viewed it for a moment. It must be examined.

The Globule (part 1)

It’s been busier than normal tonight. I got into a dull lull earlier. It was four-o-clock, it was four-thirty, it was five and still I had nobody to serve. I didn’t mind it much though, I was feeling rather lazy. Getting lost in the virtual world that was nesting in my phone.

Some people came in. They wanted this or that. I gave them this or that for this and that price. It repeated, once, twice, countless. I was overwhelmed.

I came to a point of decision. What to do? Dishes are overflowing. I have none to give out. Do dishes, ignore customers? Ignore dishes, do customers…or rather serve customers?

I chose to serve. The dishes piled up to great piles. But I found myself lost to obligation at the encounter of a regular, Dana, who had come to meet a blind date she’d been matched to on the internet. We chatted. Then chatted some more. She checked her phone, asked me a question and forgot my answer before hearing it.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the messes I needed to clean up. The glass recycling, in particular, seemed to be calling much attention.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Pigeon Man

He had four dollars left. He was hungry. His face was gaunt and weathered. He felt as if there was a hole right through him where his stomach used to be. The crumpled bills trembled in his hand; only four left. He wanted so much to just sit somewhere warm and slurp up a bowl of soup. He wanted a pair of pants that didn't constantly slide off his jagged hips. He wanted his brain to work like it used to. He wanted to remember the things he felt so nostalgic about. But mostly, he wanted the company of his friends. He thought of ordering a bowl of soup to-go, taking it with him and enjoying it surrounded by their soft chatter. How could he though? He imagined the puzzled looks on their faces as he reached his empty hand out to greet them. He couldn't do that, not to his friends. Wistfully, he looked up at the cafe's neon sign through the cataract that clouded one of his once brilliant blue eyes. He sighed a pained and shallow sigh and walked into the shop next door.

The bag was heavy under his arm. Knees throbbing, he made his way to his spot. A few of them were waiting for him. He slowly lowered himself to the grass and they cocked their heads in curiosity when they spotted the bag he set next to him. Word spread quickly of his arrival and soon he was surrounded by those expectant and familiar faces. He forgot about the soup and tore the top off the bag. They told him they were glad he came. He told them he was glad to be there. He reached an arm inside the bag, scooped a handful out and scattered it across his lap. They hopped around him, cooing their "thank yous". His dry lips cracked into a smile. He lay back and felt the cool grass tickle his neck. It felt nice to lay here with good company. He closed his eyes, felt around for the bag and pinched a little bit out of it. He pursed his lips tightly together and sprinkled the small pieces across his mouth. His closest friends surrounded his face and began to gently peck him with tiny kisses. Now his smile spread from ear to ear. He exhaled through his nose long and slow. His knees stopped throbbing, his hands lay still beside him and a few salty tears slipped from his creased eyes and streaked down into the grass.


Thursday, September 16, 2010

Puzzling Death

I was bored and not feeling well. Most likely a kidney infection. I had swallowed my antibiotic and was drinking glass after glass of water. My back was tormenting me. It was a strange feeling, not like an everyday backache. I felt as if my organs were pulsing with infection and if you sliced me open you'd see a pus-filled chasm of sickness. I'm sure I'm exaggerating, but it hurt. I had been browsing the internet for about three hours. Time to do something else. I got up to pee for probably the sixteenth time and as I was walking back from the bathroom I passed the hall closet. I thought, I could play a game. Mancala? No, you need two people for that. Ah, there are puzzles in there.
I slid the door aside and unearthed the old box of puzzles. After refilling my water, I returned to my nest on the couch and put on some Chopin. The approaching autumn nudged me to choose the pile of cardboard that would resemble orange and yellow leaves when assembled. They tumbled out in front of me and I had to rescue of few pieces from the puffy lips of a curious feline. I sifted through the heap and beckoned the edge pieces to come to me. They gathered neatly in front of me. There were still some hiding under the middle pieces, snickering about their escape. But I felt I had most of them. I began.

Soon, my mind slipped, my eyes glazed, and I was maybe 6 years old. The room was warm, glowing amber and the wall behind me was a beautiful sunset of wallpaper. The woman next to me smelled of powder and lipstick. Her red lips smiled and welcoming wrinkles multiplied. We would have puzzle races. It wasn't very hard for an aged woman to snap together 12 pieces, but she never let me know that. I always thought, Oh no! She's catching up to me! She's fast! She would color with me too. I felt a certain reverence overcome me when she'd get out the crisp, clean box of 96 Crayola's. It had a built-in sharpener. She softened my grip on the sticks of color so they wouldn't break and taught me how to color inside the lines with small swirling motions. She was the best at coloring. Grandpa would sit near, sipping coffee.

The warm glow fades away, and now I'm 8 years old. I'm in a familiar hallway, one I walked down almost everyday of my life. There was a cold blueish hue seeping in through the front windows. Something had happened the night before. Mom had left in a hurry sometime in the dark. She was back now, in the hallway with me. We were all in the hallway. Dad was talking to my sisters. I didn't really understand what he was saying. Mom had this sad look on her face. I had never seen her look that way before and it frightened me. Then Dad leaned down to me and said, "Grandma Rae has passed away." Passed away? What did he mean? "Where did she go?" I asked. Dad made a sad face too. I think one of my sisters leaned over and said, "She's gone. She died." I felt my forehead and cheek muscles melt from confusion to understanding to...blank. I had to think about this. I walked away, down the stairs to my room.

A few days later I remember wanting to cry and not wanting to cry and pressing my lips against her cold, stiff powdered cheek and thinking Goodbye. She was the best at puzzles.

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Saturday, February 27, 2010

One Year Later

It's a day,
One day,

A week of,
and disembodiment.

Your thoughts,
reflect ,
an entire life,
in one second.

It's closing your eyes,
taking a breath,
and finding yourself,
someplace new.

One Year later.