A Bottle Removed

“For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief.”

- Edgar Allan Poe, “The Black Cat”

A Bottle Removed

Waking up the day after the event, I realize I had lost it all. It mostly wasn’t mine, it was my wife’s, but it did somehow lower my sensibilities, not as much as the booze though. For this corruption was neither so sweet the taste, nor clever the intent; I did what I had to do. I do believe. At this point I made a save at face.

I had been arrested before, for drinking and driving- not dangerous, and other odds and ends- I’d prefer not to mention them, or go into grave detail; however, this one occasion struck me as odd. I had never been brought in for abusing my property, attacking my very own child, while egregiously losing my heritage. I was at a loss. Though my explanation warranted no further investigation from Sherriff John (small time fool); I would plea out and leave, on to the next.

Could this grog stick to my person all day, if not all week, month, year, etc.? The smell of this miscarriage hung on my clothes as bleach specks misplaced. Would it end soon, or would I do myself in with it. I hunt solely for the bottle.

She had a smiling way of going about it, until opportunity had passed. She thought she could fool the lot. She did only me! She had the fucking papers- the pen, the words, the sub-plot, and I sold myself away with numbers and letters- my unimpassioned signature. It was that easy. The fool’s smile, I saw it unknowingly, and gave it all away—the whole $60,000, she had so distastefully earned. Entirely to personage who befriended me for the sole purpose of taking my money, while pitting me against my own kin, this is the point where I lose myself, and act as though others are to blame. Which they are, of course… You see?

My concept of life stems from the reality that I have no reality. I am a lie. The money I spend is not my own, I have no aspirations, and I lack the education to create any change, at all. I think in drops rather than thought. I must run on with this charade autonomously, there is no manual, this is normal; my real. I could therefore otherwise not function proper.

Lines were drawn; I am as a train on tracks, though late and purposeless, running for a fallen bridge: Eselsbrücke. I live in one direction with one shallow mindset. I am signing it all away- though, yesterday that was.

Presently, I stare at the ceiling. It is white, shadowed, and blank, as I am. I wonder if she knows. Does she lie here next to me in dreams or nightmares? That Gone Girl psycho… My phantasmagoria, I live. We no longer sleep together naked, hardly touching; there is no sex except for that business transaction, a symbolic appeal at labels.

Does she wake every night to the sound of distant screams, the dreadful faces I see, with that thing in the shadows? The carpet looks blue, as the outside of the house, when I walk in. The person inside is there, but nowhere to be found. It was behind windows distorted. I have come to screaming again in the grey light of morning, no rest for the wicked. What have I done? That thing once had a name, now has a smell, a shadow, a presence, a feel, and exists nonetheless…

She fooled me, I say. The Dame, she had my grandfather’s lot, will, entitlement, whom I once robbed of light cash to pay for my drug debts some past years earlier, but she has it now! No matter, I am a changed person, now; but 5 minutes difference. I am not the same person I was a week ago, and because I am a lie I hold no accountability for said person. I need not bother with any more detail, you brother, were you true. What you know is what I tell you, and I force those around me, those who claim they “love” me, to discuss only euphemisms, never truth-isms.

This morning feels no different; no better, no worse. I wake, she lies in bed, I go and look at my newly acquired business (one that is now mine, but I had little hand in its assemblage). I wonder, am I as good as I should be? Have I just leeched off of those around me because I lack a clear and realistic purpose? NO! -There is no way!

She brought me in. She sat me down. The Dame, spoke to me in a companion tone, falsely. It was true, someone was set to make a profit- it was not me now, though, I am afraid I know. I have found! I signed it all away against my own wisdom. The Dame and I are no longer copacetic, it turns out she was using me for my name. Mine own kin won’t speak a word to me. I hear naught but the sound of silence, which slowly, and agonizingly, turns to a far off hum never to be muted. I clasp my ears shut in these times! To no avail!

Though my wife paid for my prize I feel the tightening of purse strings coming to my sides, about me. The Dame was not to be here, but for a sick and twisted deal, ever common.

On my wife: I lie and she stays, I lie and she goes. In these words…That is how it works. I wonder if I am lying to myself. I play such a fantastic part!

Although the act is real, the problem is more and more present: That thing still comes around at night,
sometimes during the day- this, frequency. That thing is in the back my head; I know it when my hair stands tall on my nape. There is no shaking it away. Doomed I tell you.

Furthermore, The Dame kept an extra house; she did not love my grandfather, save for his money, his situation; the epistemological symbolic status of “marriage” was titled, but not utilized befittingly. It was a real and important thing in such a Dorf. It happened as such. She spoke of never selling, yet now she sells to me. How did I not see it?

My feet move hastily along the bedroom floor. I miss the dirt, the dust, the black cat now. Who knows me? Does anyone anymore? Do I fit the mold? I tell stories of past times with my grandfather- gaily, the fun we had, though I never really knew him recent before his passing. I chose not to speak a word to him. I did this because of my problem, which of course I deny as well.

The thing, it’s more or less a thought. It suggests right from wrong. I don’t want it there, but it shows up. I don’t want to believe it or consider it idealistic, morally, ethically, yet I sometimes do.

One thing about this thing is it is nearly impossible to trick, deceive, or manipulate. Some have called it conscience. I would not feel it when I wear drink, just a drop I say, but I get carried away, and then I forget, but at this moment, this morning, I long but lack. I have no more urge to conceal this seed planted in my brain, I wait…No more.

Ten minutes later I am in tears. I cannot block this thought, this thing, I need a drink. I must- it is a necessity, though I am not supposed to- by law, but that’s a bylaw: say it with me: bye law. Goodbye. I must avoid this. I must, I can’t. Succumbing to the bottle, I take a long gulp. This pull is like no other. I feel a sudden malaise. I fall to the floor, dizzy, something moves in my stomach. I crawl to the toilet, and open up world. What’s with this bottle removed?

It has never tasted like this before. The thing is stuck in my brain. It asks WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY? My wife asks if I am okay. I am surprised; she has since our wedding been nothing short of estranged. “Are you okay, Nicholas?” I shout back with a guttural “FINE!” I think, get away wench, you deceive ME! I hear her hasten from the door, she must be scared. I can’t stop. I lose my stomach; dry heaves. The pain, the thoughts, the thing, I am stuck in myself. There is no denial anymore. I take another drink to drown them out. I repeat the toilet scene. In my abdomen is a black hole, the universe expands.

I am no longer able to drink. This taste is rank; the chemicals. I have lost my appetite, still (Shakespeare’s: always) I thirst for relief. I want a swill to kill this thing. This conscience; I have never had it before long enough to think on. Now that my throat and stomach burn, wrenching hot heat, I must consume this spirit. I need this thing to fly from inside me. My sallow paunch, trepid, hangs low as my person. I am on the ground, lower than the toilet seat high, au fait. NO! WHY!?!?!

The Dame cashes a check, drives a new vehicle, and lives in my stead, under my grandfather’s name, in solitude accordingly. And I paid for it all. In my deception I was deceived. Conceive that notion! I was confounded and now I must live with it! Goddammit all! I am in tears, crying on the floor in the bathroom, as my wife packs up my bruised child and leaves. I make no chase. I sit in this. The thing has driven me to… It is not my fault.

I see relief. Drano from earlier… Something was clogged… But what is this? There is a difference. What is that smell. It smells of sweet booze, a bottle removed. I wonder, in my wife’s disdain for my drink, had she switched the bottles? Now, a cap removed. Had she hidden my vice in plain sight, under a different pretense?

I knew there was reason for me not to enjoy the intoxicating liquors within the bottle. She had disguised them. She had switched the Drano for booze, in hopes of killing me, and the booze for Drano. I would show her, here and now. -But first a drink.

I pulled from the red bottle as hard as I could. One hand held on the toilet seat, one hand stood tall on the floor, liquids splashing my visage. I balanced. This countenance, and contents, would prove me. The liquor tasted as sweet at the first time. I was suddenly and potently inebriated. I could not get enough. I laughed aloud now, TAKE THAT WIFE! I will show you. I could hardly stand. I crawled towards the door, blurred vision. The thing had left me. I was no longer trapped in thought, what a person could not think… I had seen the fast one pulled on me and pulled the rug from out from und… er… it…. It was a dead tell.

A try at stand did not work. I found myself incapacitated. I hung to the doorknob and wait. Could she be that far gone my wife? I yell, a mumble, no more register. I wait at the door, she will find me, I say to myself, alone. The red and black bottle on the floor near empty, what drops of liquid left were of a thicker spirit than I had become accustom. Perhaps the switching of the booze made my drink stronger. My wife would pay. I wait, coming harder of breath. I wait longer. The thing is gone. I wait… Collapsing I fell into silence waiting for the hangover that would never come.


Nothing but a scream was heard minutes after the wife’s return home. Nothing… The neighbors of this small community had heard tales before. Yes, he was a drunk, he had a few. It was considered a convivial practice. Yes, he had done it before; the physical harm. Yes, yes, yes. But they could not believe he had gone so low as to drink what remedies a clogged toilet. This thing, a clog in the brain, perhaps; conscience, was it that strong? Had this deed of selling his soul made him more or less a human, one which must wear his past at present?

No one knew. Everything told had come from one mouth, or another, housewives; one thing. What people knew and what was truth were two things different equivocally.

The police registered the events as disturbing, though they labeled them in a way as to make it less offensive for namesake, for the public. They knew the family, they knew their situation. It was no-thing to record and forget to save face, as was the abuse, as was the drinking. Just push it under the rug.

Sherriff John read the report with haste. “Can we let this one go, again?” He says to the rookie cop. He thought the town paper would have a field-day with it. A local man poisons himself with Drano under the assumption that it was a good idea. John could not understand it. The man sells away his grandfather’s belongings to The Dame, a sworn enemy, and then calls it a day. I don’t understand it. He really threw it all away. John couldn’t comprehend. A fixture of the town buried today. He contemplated… I guess that is how she goes… Dropping the paper down, he put his coffee mug to his lips and smelt the musk of darkness below. That is life…

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Don’t Ever be the Same

184453_10151151718177051_610849167_n       Abstemious use of plastics forgot. Buying up what lot is needed. Oceans of synthetic cities float in the midday sun, choking out natural life. As if permeating above, with the smell of salt, dead fish, dry air, and recently used exhaust. Their expedition was over; bags from the mall were full with one of one and ten millionth of a trend, an idea at a demographic committee’s heaven. A people of individuals trying to be unique, walking with the same goals, same aspiration, same thoughts, and same beliefs; how novel. One should write a book.

Asking of wickedness, speaking in tongues, she may know not what is morbid, and/or what was. Labels were useful in less intelligent climes, less meaningful times. As defined: wrong. –A simple guess. Remaining grotesquely huge when fully consumed, this elephant in the room won’t move. She is the stepmother metaphor who takes heritage of name while trying to save face- while thinking of score. One could hardly count. White, pink, and overgrown, mannerisms in the depths, stinking- putrid, of some dead rodent’s flesh; stepped on, stamped out, forgotten days ago, lying in the sun, in the abnormal heat of autumn’s warmth. So it was.

She still stands, and moves. Coming forth, stepping, reeking, turning, twisting, pulling, dragging, though with nothing much to say, but “I want”, “I need”, and “I take” from thee. Hands pulled at the terraform; like a rug the grass and the trees are uprooted into a massive yellow-teethed mouth. In one gulp decades are reduced to sediments of large intestine; though, whole lives were made of merely dust, it’s been tested.
Shutting the book never to read it again, he does. The reading of words had caused an event. He lay it down. Realizing now, those could be anyone’s. They could be from anyone, you name ‘em; apostles. “The Bible”, this book, “Slaughterhouse-Five”, this book; we can believe in one, but not both. We can believe in what we see, or what we don’t.


Then later:

Slowly the tide went away and came back. White Bubbles in the front, at first. Men and women and kids were chasing them down, in the heat of the sun, for no reason at all. Salt water had broken the hands of their watches, precipitation inside, stuck forever, so time was of no matter. Blue crabs had carried away their wallets and purses and clothes; these essentials were non-essential. Pinchers cut at the leather, snapping it into pieces, and dragging it into holes. The people on the beach watched the sky, they ran and jumped; they laughed and yelled: play. A ship came up in the distance. They could see the lights. Then a small boat came, off afar, then closer. It ran ashore at sunset. Men in funny hats, feathers and fine fabrics, carrying paper and rods spoke in strange and indecipherable tongues. Then a light-bulb flashed on. An explosion rang out inside a crowded head, and nothing was the same ever again.

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How to Quit a Job and Not Die

Some of the best advice I have ever received came from a disgruntled department manager at a big-box corporation. The advice was: “if you don’t like it quit”. Recently, I have realized the value of this statement, and that it relates to an entirely more important concept; that concept being: if you don’t like something, change it (or shut-up and quit).

For four years of my life, I invested time into something I did not believe in. Something that did very little for me, save for allot small portions of currency into a precarious bank account. I drank and occupied my time with being lazy. I thought there was no way out of this situation. I went to work working hours I didn’t want, days I didn’t agree with, for a corporation that did nothing but create a profit for themselves, while dwindling the payments of their employees ( I use “employees” loosely, as they did; pawns), and while enacting an increasing external cost (waste, pollution, etc.) on the environment. Naturally I disliked this job.

I felt trapped, as many do. I would come in early day and late night; evenings and weekends, to place product, pour chemicals, and mostly cashier- I sold people things they didn’t need, enrolled customers in shady “big savings” programs, and promoted a lifestyle for families trying to fill their pantries that was below average. My job was never my job; I was a prisoner, a prostitute. I was never in the right mindset to realize what I was doing. Most people around me would tell me to stay focused, you could get fired, LP is watching. They would say things like if you quit this job you can never come back, and most people that quit this job will try to come back- it’s a UNION!

[Ironically I should have taken this as advice rather than a warning, which exuded fear. I should have torn off my stupid fucking apron and walked through the automatic glass doors naught to return for years, for a single purchase out of need. I should have quit and not come back.]

They’d been doing this their whole lives, no risk, no danger, no reason to change. The people that told me “no” had made a career of telling people “no” because they had been told “no” by others, and never made anything of it; (I can’t, I won’t- I did, and I didn’t fucking die, I say.). The reason being for the “no” people is easy- rather, simple. It was easy to say “no” (in the sense that it gave no occasion to over-come, or to persevere), it created a mass of melancholy employees; one does not feel alone in their troubles when around others in similar troubles. I don’t conceive disparagingly of the people who stick this out for necessity, I find it gives a sort of pride, but leaves a person naked and in the lurch. What happens if all those “no” people get shit on and the company folds, who cares about them?

If the corporation ends what then of the employees, I thought. If I need time for education to better myself how will that turn out, will this entity bend to my whims as I have bent to theirs?
For a test I decided to give up. I took breaks at the most inopportune times for management, I found loopholes in taking longer breaks (in general), and I stood up for myself when they called me to the front to do other people’s work (inevitably the front-end staff would not have enough employers due to drastic hour cuts from top management; Chairman Bob). Essentially, this big-box outfit would run on every department but the one it was supposed to be running on. It would be similar to patching a blanket with the blanket you are patching the blanket with: itself; the seamstress would be creating another hole, in hopes of patching another hole.

One day, it was a Super-Bowl Sunday of sorts- I had been working from 10 am to 6pm, the prime hours for Sunday business at a grocery. I saved my breaks for the last hour of my shift. We would get two fifteen minute breaks; which I extended to twenty minutes each, due to close reading of the union handbook (I emphasize: CLOSE READING). I was just about to punch back in and punch back out for my second break when an irate manager came up to me, he told me to get my ass up front, they needed me there. What was I doing, said his hands hanging in the air, spread wide. He asked me if I heard the calls over the intercom: “Terry service 90, Terry service 90, we need you up front”. I told him I had, but I was in the back relaxing and eating food on my break- it was great. I told him he could do the work just as well as I could. He should try it- he wasn’t on his break relaxing. That’s when the he lost it. His eyes squinted in disbelief, taller than me he stood, grey beard, old, heart-attack serious. Fuck, this was a moment. I waited for his reaction. Then he said it: “if you don’t like it quit.”

After some efforts and trying, I eventually quit. He really changed my mind. At first it was hard, it seemed impossible as everyone had told me. I was insecure, scared, and generally tied down by my fears. Would I be able to make rent, find another job, pay my bills?!?!?! These fears were that of the unknown, what these other people who worked in this huge corporation had told me. Oddly, the same people who complained about their mistreatment by this corporation were the ones defending it, keeping it alive in a way. I thought to myself why? I wondered if they thought it was worse to do something they hated just so they could exist, rather than to quit and look for something better elsewhere, a new life. I imagine if I were looking for apples and I couldn’t find them under one specific tree I would starve to death with that kind of ideology.

I am sure some people love working where they work. I am certain some people believe they have no other option, or they have it made, or they have to do it to do it. Yet, I wonder if they look at the bigger picture.

What I learned from quitting this job has helped me shape my life. When someone tells me I can’t do something, or it is impossible, or it is scary, I want to do it more. What do people who don’t have to face fear know about fear? Moreover, I won’t ask an artist how to perform open-heart surgery, because what do they know about it?

Walter White said it best: “What I came to realize is that fear, that’s the worst of it. That’s the
real enemy. So, get up, get out in the real world and you kick that bastard as hard you can right in the teeth.”

My tooth fell out in April of 2013, while eating buffalo chicken pretzels I bought on a whim, I took a risk. I realized the only way I could get dental insurance now (being 25, close to 26) was to either a.) Acquire a real job, or b.) Go back to school.

At the time I was working in the back of a kitchen in NE Minneapolis getting yelled at while generally getting paid in peanuts, oh, and there was not advancement. I barely made rent, what was left I scrounged food. I told them to move me up. They told me I could find the door. Essentially I wanted more. I took the risk, dropped the $80 University application fee, called various numbers, and was later accepted. Had I thought: I can’t do this I don’t know where I will be, the last year of my life would have never happened. The education and advancement I have learned at the U I will carry with me for the rest of my life. The week after I got into the U I was offered a job at the U. A week later my new job gave me the keys, and I immediately quit the kitchen; they were surprised. It was their way of keeping people down. It was an easy way to walk out.

If you don’t like your job, quit your job. If you enjoy your job, keep your job. Never fear something because others tell you to fear it. Make your own observations, because most of what you “know” is one person’s observation, from a unique and varied perspective. Be scientific; observe. Be logical, without money you won’t die. If you are surrounded by people telling you “no”, “you can’t”, “you won’t”, “you shouldn’t”, let them take their own advice. See how far they go. Get out and challenge yourself, take risks. Otherwise what do you do?

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Who gives a shit?


          Each day that we wake we are given the opportunity to brush our teeth, comb our hair, wash our bodies- take showers, while checking our phones for notifications, and prepare for what befalls us.  We are given the opportunity to generally do things which are perceived as socially acceptable, things that have been done for years.  These socially acceptable things are finely attuned and have become routed into our daily lives.  I wonder do we actually speak true words, or do we just say what we have to- are told to say?  Have we ever actually lived outside of the social constructs of our civilization?  Was that thought dead hundreds of years ago and planted in my genes to reflect on it now by my severely late distant relative?  I have to wonder, why do we give a shit? 

          Is there a fear of appearing not to appear?  You’re only as relevant as the things around you. 

          It is easy to create an android self, unreal to our tangible urges and convictions; something fabricated, synthesized, and enacted to create a façade, something that others will like…  But is that us?  I want to go to heaven, but pre-marital sex is awesome.  I am animal; I should howl, fuck, eat, and bite, right?  Have you burped, farted, spit, bled, or cursed and felt hot eyes of disapproval move on you?  Yes.  Most people do these things, if not only in the privacy of their home, behind closed doors, but out in the general public unannounced.  Some even do these things in public.  Some people even poop in public; I’ve seen it around town, or the aftermath.  Now my stomach rumbles. 

          My mother told me to hold my tongue because it might get me into trouble.  I respect her.  So be it, I spoke my mind.  And it felt wonderful.  Maybe I enjoy the excitement of getting in trouble, or venting, or not holding in my opinion, actions.  Who cares?  Who really gives a shit?  I tell people what I think because I actually think that.  There is nothing to apologize for- nothing.  If someone is being a dick label them a dick.  If they love you they will forgive you. 

          I tell others to call in sick, to quit the jobs they hate, and to think differently, because you might die tomorrow, because people I respect once told me that same shit.  Say whatever you want to say, you are a brave and thoughtful person.  My father told me not to worry about death or plans, because he could walk across the street and die right here, right now- well not anymore.  I have taken that with me. 

          Is the reality so hard to see?  We all have double chins, drinking problems, beer bellies, errant hairs, torn jeans, repetitive fashion, pimps and blemishes.  Some people like to stick needles in their arms to feel better about their life as a whole- these “junk abusers” as my predecessors have coined.  Some people like to have lots of money because they lack morality and will stop at nothing to attain it.  Some people have fancy cars because possibly they have small penises.  I see legs exposed to the sun with words scrawled of raised flesh which scream cutter.  Does it seem as sexy now?  Is that sort of display a problem?  Why hide them?  No one cares. 

          Embracing our flaws makes us different, unique, and human.  Once I was running across the Stone Arch Bridge while listening to the Muse and I started crying for no reason, it burned.  I didn’t care.  I was a crybaby, but it didn’t matter.  Around campus a person can see mini-skirts, fake tans, breasts in push-up bras, bandanas, muscle T’s, sports apparel, and perfectly did hair, but is that exciting?  Does it matter?  I find it hard to take people seriously when their make-up appears better than their attitude.  Attitude is everything, and in a sense, one can’t fake that.  Attitude doesn’t give a shit.  Das ist ein Fakt.

          But what if your attitude is iconoclastic?  Should it give a shit too?

          If that be the case, hopefully they don’t treat you like they did in elementary school.  Sit in the corner!  You miss recess, and you don’t get to talk, or walk, or play.  Eat your Cheese Dunkers and shut it!  What you did is punishable by demerits!  That is an infraction!  At times kids had been so bad that they had to sit for two hours after school in a library and be subjected to a horrible old codger.  He is dead now- RIP, so that is payback for his ill mannerisms during detention. 

          Everyone has bad days and good days, but what is there to feel good or bad about?  I don’t think one moment has ever defined me as a person, good or bad, not even this moment.  Moments have stuck for years, but change is always in the air.  Nothing is really stagnant, not even ill will.  Is there a good or a bad, or is there a just is?  Life happens, it just is.  No one chose to be born, to be white, or pink, to be male or female, to be disemboweled, or a whimper, or to be drunk (well maybe not the last one). 

          I enjoy the idea of getting drunk, but I don’t like being drunk.  I enjoy the idea of being born, but I don’t wish to be born my whole life.  Some Christians want to be born again, but I find the act disgusting, painful, and abusive towards women.  Wasn’t your first birth traumatic enough?  I feel bad for your mother.  However, it would be an act where someone does something, which is.  The act of doing, the Funktionslust- the joy of doing is what moves and molds us.  So, I guess if one likes to be reborn they should be reborn all the time, immer.  My judgment is unimportant, and sedimented in bias language. 

          Doing without caring; everything is improvised, even this writing, this conversation, and this alarm-clock slap.  It was sort of not really maybe planned out, and it transpired- so there, now it is almost over.  Done.  It just is.   

          Most people are afraid to give speeches, public speaking, or to even present themselves as they are, but there is a need for that.  You must tell people what you feel, what you think, without being afraid.  Fear and excitement and anger are a person’s best friend, they motivate and create contrast.  Daily life can become humdrum and boring, make it a party; tell people to fuck off.  Do something outrageous, let people stare, you are in the exact spot you are in for a specific reason, and whether it is fate or coincidence it is happening. 

          At times I am terrified with what I might say because of social sanctions, stigmas attached, and mislabels, however, it is easy to be afraid of something you don’t understand.  Yet, maybe the thing you fear doesn’t understand you, so maybe it fears you just as much, or more.  See?  It just is.


          Life happens, alongside the social standards, the folds we crease, the hats we wear, with the judgments and fears we face.  I see people portrayed on Facebook (and other social media) as they would like to be seen, they give a shit.  They care about the amount of likes they will achieve, the positive feedback.  Yet, did they do anything new, different, transcendental, or did they just fill a part?  -A trivial marketing part, at that.  Let’s start to not giving a shit, because life just is.  Let’s have fun.  Who enjoys social norms anyway?  Normal is boring!  But normal is just a label, a metaphor signified by a sound (ah, the modern episteme; knowledge, language.).  Who gives a shit? 

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Language and Real-Life; Bugs, Viruses, and Human Beings

The Mississippi River, Lake City, MN.

The Mississippi River, Lake City, MN.

            Appeasement, atonement, euphemisms: these expressions wouldn’t matter if they were really real, but they are not.  They remain excuses for the hot-winded.  If a butterfly didn’t have wings it would be no better than an ant.  If a butterfly was never a caterpillar it would have no chance of rectifying itself, or reflecting on what it could have been.  There it would be, just a worm.  Irony, I call it.  Something of the sort, the like; the kind, ideally… -I bet that wingless ant is apologetic even without knowing what it lacks.  Crawling across the ground, low to it, in an army, marching, in the dark, automated by commands, such is the life.  However, the ant is not a worm.  I wonder about the Queen Ant though, and these restrictions we must follow- rules, morals, ethos, law, grammar.  And I bet she never read Nietzsche. 

            This town is full of sales men and women, marketers.  They are not unlike the ant, or the worm, or certain lawyers, they are low to the ground.  Not all I say, but a few I know lack moral and imagination- the insects that is.  They look for one thing, fibrous, pale-green, marked with historic faces and statements of trusting God, dollar bills; which accumulate whenever your eyes dart at a canvas (I use canvas loosely): words, models, statements.  They want you to look, subconsciously, to remember a slogan minced with sex, alcohol, drugs, wants-for-needs, like that, you go home and think, ponder, fancy.  Pharmacies were built bottle by bottle, and they drew up the blueprints.  You say: I need that, I need that, I need that…  Every little space you see in front of you is used for some purpose, but what?  Even if it is the air you breathe. 


            We sat at a coffee shop, inside cold air-condition, Mapps, and thought of smoking cigarettes.  The pink and orange clouds moved across the cityscape followed by darkness, heavy, symbolizing precipitation.  I estimated it would get wet, it did eventually.  The patio was shaded by the newly remodeled building.  Cars drove by.  People spoke.  We lacked a lighter as we mentioned death.  The only really real thing in life is death.  Just like nothing is impossible, not even saying that everything is possible is possible- that is impossible, so everything and nothing is impossible.  I read the over hyphenated obituary and thought of tUnE-yArDs.  My India Pale Ale was nice, full-bodied, and yellowish-amber, sat cold in a glass.  The waiter was healthy.  He had to find us a lighter. 

            To “Jerome” (fake name),

I noticed your email.  It was tender, kind and honest…  I am just fucking around.  Your email was nothing short of trite name calling, a misunderestimated effort…  I am sure you moved those newsstands on to the sidewalk, you paid to have them there, you set them up to draw attention, and some little punk stole your goddamn space.  You never imagined me.  Funny how things work both ways; it so happens that if you put your paper there and then I come by and put my paper there, after, covering your paper, your attempts become void.  Threats are provocation, insults are inspiration.  Everyone around this town knows a thing or two about that, in some way or another.  We are the same in that we are different, so let’s get along with one another. 

Free to all.  I stand behind what I print, even if it stands in your newsstands.  Also, they stand on my sidewalk (via: tax dollars).  I wonder if that feels good.

“When you wear a mask always sound like a liar.” –tUnE-yArDs

            The problem with language is the person using it.  Not understanding language is the folly.  Not reading, or being unable to read is a tragedy.  Avoiding the conversation is possible.  I don’t know… I think people are objective until something is at stake, and then we introduce the modern episteme; we have fight or flight, we do one or the other.  In this case there is a third response, a subterfuge.  Still always remain these ubiquitous labels.  We have a break in the connection.  One party is the somnambulist and the other is lucid, awake, alive, controlling the circus, contorting the concepts, and skewing the margins.  What for?  Self-gain.  And no one is the wiser, mostly.  Nothing is all that sad, except for the idea that some will exist solely to bring others down, to live off of their accomplishments, while offering nothing of their own, boasting, verbose, delusional.  That is how they exist, not unlike a virus.  Not unlike ants or worms, never taking flight, very close to dirt. 

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Stewart Anthony; stuck in time

10603405_10203481050599662_622607921470157463_nStewart Anthony, cruising on top of paved world only being brought down by circles and circles and circles, to the left; grotesquely contorted accidental acrobat; unfortunate excite- unfortunate.

Sound of a revved engine.  Once touting a broken leg and ego, and only with an underdog tenacity; the All-American aggressor.

But that is his sport.  He is a product of his environment.  Emulating those from a by-gone era, that of stock car racing; just after the moonshine.  We say Nature vs. Nurture.

Spawn child of backcountry man-proof, unlawfulness.  Now, immensely corporate, while urbane enjoyable; leaving the yard in leathers soaked in champagne, ladies follow with fake tits and platinum blond hair, arm in arm, just for the camera.  Give the king his fucking crown.  The Paparazzi begs for a kiss, PLEASE, JUST ONE!  -The women, the fast cars, the media, glitz and glam and everything right.  -Don’t let them down.

Then a black hole opens up above the tracks overhead.  You stay, but everything else is sucked up and pulled apart, piece by piece.  Paramedics run with arms out like they are in shock, the worst feeling.  No human being can fix this.

I remember Sundays it brought the family together, over beans and ham.  Grandma would scold.  We had come from scripture and hymns- that proud.  And he had it all.  Grandpa was there, Dad was there, Grandma was there, but they are all gone now.  He thought-

I have this one,

It won’t get away,

Then again

I was once that young boy he thought, again.  His heart raced.  Quick to wag finger a gesture of aggression, just as his idols; pedals and metal frames, the sort, gas-brake exchange.  An empire built around him, his panache, his disdain, one couldn’t miss the complexion gave pink on his face under black mane.

Was it an act?  It happened all the same.  He sits staring at his reflection marble pillars alone.  Sitting, idle, staring at the rearview mirror, breaking it off with gloved hand.  Splintered mirror bloody hands.  This is incredible.  Let’s take it back.

No more bullshitting about fucking off.

A moment later you can’t take back that moment.  This bad moment defining a lifetime; forget everything good you’ve ever done.  Tears for anyone with empathy enough to live through death (on both sides; the living and the dead alike), everyone, tears as big as October Cabbages, even in June, July, and August.

Could he get behind that wheel again?  Drive it backwards like Ferris Bueller’s Day off?  It never happened.  Cameron kicks it through the floor to ceiling window, though; suspense thriller in this classic feel-good- Spoiler Alter.

A life surrounded by cars, even when biking.  So many thoughts, nothing is right.  All is uncertain, that is life.  -Pulling to the side, at a loss.  -Looking back, cameras on you, unable to move.

The young, the hit-baiters, media-fucks, those seeking views for viewpoints print unwarranted opinions which fall flat against fact.  Yeah, I said that.

There remain two events which are objective:  One, someone has succumbed, died, passed (whatever euphemism you choose to use with an –ed suffix), and two, someone will be blamed, even if by accident, even with good intentions.

Stewart Anthony will forever be frame-by-frame a (that word), stigmatized.  Judgment passed, we sit and relax, but he sits and has to live with his life, as it is, as another life is lost, try and wash your hands Macbeth.  Screams couldn’t describe despair.

No one is to blame.  It’s funny how things change, though this change is not funny.  No one forced anyone to race for the checkered.  An argument before you are breathless, never to regain; one foot in front of a speeding car, reckless.  Watching eyes made to retain.  And one wonders what one was thinking.  One just has to think, what did he see?

And in an age of technology, ubiquitous cameras, camera phones, and high-tech recording devices, nothing is private, not even death, not even grief, not even accusations- these things we must live with, at least…

The announcers almost pulled it off gracefully, but I could imagine them seeing only one image.  I saw it over and over again, back and forth, in slow-motion, from one angle as most.  We needed another angle.  I agree.  I thought it could be a life motto.  A new perspective on everything, and we lose that one thing.  But what if we had it still, would it change anything?


An interlude: Not specifically for this piece:  I could never live with that.  I will never consent to go to war, to kill, to malign.  I will never change someone’s course.  People do what they want.  My religion is peace.


They were set out on that road, and they crossed paths.  That is all that happened.  Those are the only facts.  Stewart Anthony must, for indefinite lengths of time live with this surreal reality, likened to the Twilight Zone.  You do not sleep, you do not eat, and you do not exist without thinking about certain things.

Those involved will have night-terrors.  Wake up sweating, that thing is coming to get you, it hides in the shadows and behind doors.  No face, long fingers.  Unnamable offenses can only describe.  It is silent when you scream, and then you wake up never wanting to go back.  Black bags under eyes reflect that, as if they’ve been packed.

What we can do now is show respect.  Stewart Anthony, now, it is you we will never forget, and for what- such is life.  I dream of days before, talking on the phone, not knowing.  All are innocent, painted evil by confused people.

The missing piece of the puzzle is lost, puzzling us.

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