Only real data

I only use real words in my writing because I think it sounds better when things are real. Like, you can’t have a meal out of plastic food. There has to be actual food there for you to eat. Frankly, if it’s not real, like rally real, then how can you tell if something even exists?

It’s like…come on, it’s just so frustrating having to describe these simple concepts that are like, so totally ingrained in our nature. I mean, if poverty really exists, then why am I not impoverished, you know? So that’s not real data that I can use for my writing.

Another word that’s real that I like is “pizza.” It’s a real word that means food that’s in a circle with some cheese on top of bread on top of sauce, in that order. It’s very good, but I don’t like to eat too much because I have to watch my waistline. A waistline is something you get when you’re older and your legs have sprouted. Yeah, my legs didn’t sprout until I was seven, a little later than most, but oh well.

Another thing I like to do in my writing is to repeat things that mean stuff to me. If it doesn’t mean something, then I’ll like only say it once, but sometimes I’ll say it two times because of my bad memory. But anyone who knows me knows I have a bad memory, so if I say something three or four times, they know it’s really important.

Another thing I like to do in my writing is repeat things that are important to me. Cause then I’m able to remember it more and like where I left off, I can start again. Like a cycle of rebirth, drifting ever outward from the center of my creation, always molding and changing like the Atlantic Ocean during hurricane season.

Sometimes people tell me that my ideas aren’t good and stuff, but I tell them just look at Mark, and his ideas, and then they do that and come back to me and say what good ideas I have. Yeah, totally. Mark is like second rate, and I’m maybe like…not like first rate, but close to first rate. I think that’s why Mark gets jealous sometimes.

I also like to use opinions sometimes, like other people’s opinions from the newspaper. The newspaper doesn’t really use real facts all the time, so sometimes I have to get it from magazines. Tabloids are generally good cause I like the feel of them and the crust of the paper. It’s like a texture that my fingers like when they start thinking for me.

 

Is it you or is it me?

Everyone is made of wax.
A slight amount of heat is enough to set a person melting.
Else give them a good pelting,
throwing stone after stone at their heads.
They will only get stuck there.

Why does everyone keep their fears inside?
I think it’s because they fear what’s outside.
Not judging, just making observations.

Molded in their heads; the thoughts never freed.

It just so happens right now,
that offenses dropped, guards let way down,
an opening has occurred.
Shall we fly, quick, in the bird?
Pondering over the injustice,
gently considering death?

Procrasta-astanation…

The rolling waves of tomorrow’s crest destroy the passing thoughts of future obligations. The ocean drives its angry water further inward, deploying its salty weapons upon the empty shore. A man may think he has an inkling of his purpose, a goal in his mind, and the means to enact all this within his own power, but that envious wonderment is only the foam that the wind drives up the dunes.

The coast is worn from the storm’s thrashing. Erosion cycles its surface so that it shows preserved freshness, unnatural in its constant newness. The tree that was safe for decades from the water is now only a resting place for the birds. Had it been allowed to triumph against destruction, then what wonders may have flourished from its seed!

The gulls dare take flight from that stump just a minute fore the air’s weight crushes their wings. Collective calmness soothes their bellies, waiting for the storm to pass. Patience is a virtue, for it allows us to wait til the moment for action is ripe. It is also a curse, for it forces us to stake our aspirations in the ground.

The hazy dreams of yesterday float tween the water and the sun, afraid to evaporate in the cold air. The day brings heat, and soon, clear skies. Attempts are made to grasp onto one last cloud, but gusts blow the thought away. Another time, another place, another way. Just not today.

 

The Dancing Queen

“It’s a running joke around here that Jocelyn is the party monkey,” Jim said. The wide grin on his wide face reminded me of an ape.

I didn’t understand, so I just chuckled a bit and tried to similarize my facial expression.

“She’s always…’monkeying around,’ if you know what I mean,” he said with his smile that might have been the dreamwork of some drunk animator. “You know, with the boss’ wife.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, like she’s….you know…” His laugh was like a pig drowning in the mud that it so desired.

“I thought, you know, the boss is kinda like a” (don’t say religious) “straight edge kinda guy.”

“Oh yeah, but they’re into some wild stuff, man.” Jim’s eyes extended over his face and dripped with hate. “Wild shit that you would never dream of.”

 

+++ (where is the asterisk?)

 

I always thought that dreams were just in our heads. Like if you thought of something real in your head, even though that was real, it’s still just a dream ’cause it’s just in your head. Sometimes, and I think we have to give ourselves some evolutionary credit (for whatever that means), that’s not true. What’s in our head does exist in the outside world, it’s just that you have to prove it. Look at Einstein and how those observers somewhere in Africa (a continent that my education excuses me from the direct knowledge of its geography) saw those stars during the solar eclipse.

You just have to have a good argument. I’ve never been good at arguing.

 

+++

 

“I like to dance and get drunk,” Jocelyn said. Jim chugged a handle of whiskey in the corner of the bar. Everyone else was just drinking or dancing, and Jocelyn was dancing in front of me. Like I knew how to handle that. “You want to dance?”

“I’ve, uh…I guess…dancing is uh, you know…” Dancing is a way to prove your prowess in athleticism to those around you. It’s a fluke of it looking a lot like fighting, but only a few people fight nowadays. “It’s fun.”

“You like to dance.”

Isn’t it alone?

No…no, ha. It hears all the things listen.

One wonders what it says. It wants to be so still.

It’s in the woods under the rocks by the trees and it hears the forest. The forest speaks through the animals in the woods.

The sky even sings, and it hears this and shudders and shuts down, perpetuating the dark myth that the damned are tortured. It is torture, and wouldn’t you know that it doesn’t care?

It doesn’t give a FUCK! A single one rests beneath its hairy, muddy, bloody paws that tore through the winter’s snow-covered floor with such excitement for the freedom that it never found, never saw.

It trickles down the back of your hand and into the sink, unloved and never found.

It dies down in the corner of his room.

But it isn’t alone! All the voices tell it not to let alone.

All the voices tell it to go alone.

Tell it to go away.

Go away.

A Dull Day

He waited for the passing clouds to reveal the sun. The solar panel that fed the cell that charged his rifle was missing all that energy. His target was only a few miles away, an easy enough shot for Gaul Galen.

A click and the rustle of dry grass behind him. The lack of wind was glaring.

“Ah, Gaul, if it isn’t you,” Pretorius Flux said. Gaul didn’t have to turn around; he recognized the gravely voice of the gizormak.

“Damnit, Flux, come on, we’re going after the same target here,” Gaul said. Each word brought a deeper sensation of pressure against the back of his skull. His life was in the hands of someone who didn’t know the difference between an asteroid and a comet. “Don’t be stupid.”

“But if you kill him, then I only get half the reward.”

“We only split it if we both do the work, dumbass.” Gaul pushed the weapon away, stood, and had his own rifle trained on Flux in a single moment, a point in time. The gizormak’s shape was that of a blob that held its weapon in slushy extensions of its body. Three big bulbs rested on the top of three stalks, his only recognizable feature. “You be the bait. I’ll take the shot.”

“Your weapon is not yet charged,” Flux said, the words seemingly coming from somewhere deep within the bulbous body. “You think I am that stupid?”

“Stupid enough to let me stand. Again, you be the bait.”

Flux squinted, his three eyes shrinking in size rather than using eyelids to do so. Apparently, he was in deep thought, a rare thing for a gizormak. “Fine, fine.”

Gaul shook his head and settled back into firing position. As Pretorious Flux sauntered off, he wondered how long it would be until he could just go home.

The sun was out after the gizormak had traveled only five hundred yards. In another five hundred, he was dead.

Gaul blew the smoke from the muzzle of his gun and settled back. A few more hours, his target would be dead, and he’d have the full reward.