Out Like A Lamb (Part Three)

The Sun is up it’s all I see.


Have you ever just sat in a chair and thought about sand? You don’t really have to sit in a chair to think about it. I like to think in the shower. Or when I’m driving. Or in a chair. I also like to pee in the shower, but I don’t pee when I’m driving. Or in a chair. Sand is interesting. There is so much of it. It has no life span. It is either exposed to the Sun, submerged in water, or buried underneath hundreds of trillions of other little pieces of sand. They say that no two snowflakes are identical. Is it the same for sand? I wonder. They say that no two palms are the same. Is it the same for people? I wonder. It can’t be true. They say that no two psalms are the same, but I’ve never read, so I wouldn’t know.

I really hate the sand. You can’t get rid of the shit.

In this part of my story I will introduce you to my brother. I have other family members, but he is the only one you will ever meet. More on him later. I duped Suzanne into loving me. Fucking right, I did.

Everyone has that relative. That aunt or cousin or grandparent that sends you a sweater every Christmas, and every year you do the same thing with that sweater. You hang it up and put it all the way in the back of your closet because you know you will never wear it. You probably wind up calling the relative to thank them for the kind gesture at some point, but there is a very selfish feeling that you suppress. You wonder why they even wasted their time on such a stupid gift. It’s fucked up to feel that way and of course you don’t have the heart to tell them your thoughts, because no matter how you look at it, that person took time out of their busy day to go to the mall, spend money on that sweater, and then package it up and send it hundreds of miles to your doorstep, not caring if you ever actually wear the sweater. They just want you to be happy.

They just want you to be happy. There is nothing quite like the philanthropic family member. Transfixed on their own cataleptic state of charity. It is not even limited to family. Friends or acquaintances can fill out this application as well. It is the act of giving which is usually reserved for the colder portion of the year. Or warmer, depending on which hemisphere you live in. And because you are very quick to identify errors, you will say “But Thomas, the Western countries are the only ones civilized enough to celebrate the act of giving, the birth of Christ. Or the lighting of the Menorah, depending on your beliefs.” I would like to personally thank all proprietors for being politically correct and enhancing the holiday experience. Happy Holidays in substitute of Merry Christmas. The 21st century is a sensitive one.

In response to your Western Civilization bias, I say you are an asshole. You are no better than any Eastern native that prays and gives thanks to Allah or Buddha or Mohammed. We only believe what we believe. The radicals are few. The casual are many. It seems to be only a Western practice to forcibly spread the thought of Christianity or Democracy. Such force insinuates that other beliefs and ideals are wrong. That is what we told the “Redman” or “Savages” while we burned their villages and raped their women. Corrupting two races of young minds in the process and the saga continues. Sometimes I think that these radicals are the reason that Eastern fundamentalists hate us. A radical living in a cave built into a mountain hates me because people that look and talk like me are fools. If given the chance he would kill me and my family and himself in the process. “Your people fear what my people embrace.”

But they don’t just hate the West and our ideals. They hate each other. That is what the media wants us to believe. The rivalries they supposedly share are a fabrication of an elaborate imagination. An imagination funded by the government. The government that infuses our media with propaganda and lies. The media that tortures the citizens with images of fear and hatred and sympathy and a tightly wound ball of emotions. The government that young boys die in protection of. The media that is fueled by the organs and blood of these young boys. They die to protect us. Our safety rests on the trigger fingers of well trained American boys. And more recently, girls. They are as American as apple pie. Or the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Or 34th Street. As American as those coping with PTSD. Or those on medication for illnesses that may or may not be real and may or may not be caused by the PV pill packs that soldiers were required to take in the event of a chemical attack.

I’d like to know when the hatred started. It’s hard for me to imagine that in 1850 there was a Taliban leader hiding in the mountains saying “Mother fuck America.” Did they even know we were here? Did we know they were there? When was the exact day? These are the questions that I need answered. Now the children are stuck in the sand. And you can’t get rid of it.

My name is Thomas and I like to go by Thomas. Sometimes I am angry. Sometimes I am happy. Sometimes I am upset. Sometimes I am not. I feel a lot of different things, but I mostly feel nothing. You have met me before. The first time I was hopelessly in love. The second time I was full of vengeance. Nothing I write is necessarily in chronological order. I don’t hide from my mistakes. You are lucky, because today I am calm and serene. The same way the ocean is after the storm. There is no promise that another storm will never pass. There will be more storms. But for now we are alone. The candles are lit. The music is playing. I am writing this hoping that you will read it.

Jekyll and Hyde has already been written and read. Most of the time I wish I had been that author.

My mood right now is somber. I am serious but not quite melancholy. I am lacking a certain light but I am not dark. I am sober. I am not intoxicated or under the influence of any drug, although I am not opposed to that concept. In this moment no one is missing me or thinking about me. Not even Suzanne, and even if she is I could care less. I wish Renee was. I can’t do anything about it. I can’t go back. She left me figuratively. So I returned the favor literally.

This installment is different than the rest. I have introduced you to my brother although I have not yet told you his name. I am not writing about the old man or his old wife. I am not writing about Suzanne or Jim. I am not writing about Renee. Not right now, anyway.

They say the family that prays together, stays together. I don’t know. My family never prayed together but we’ve manage to stay undivided. I realize that the majority of what I’ve just written is useless to most of you. No one cares about my opinions on political issues or religious matters. I like to present them to you on occasion for my own benefit.

The morning after Suzanne and I had sex for the first time I skipped town. Our actions had consequences. I had sex with my friends wife. I could only assume she would leave him in hopes of starting over with me. That was unrealistic. If she was unfaithful to Jim then I presume that she would commit similar acts of infidelity in the future. As I said before, I didn’t love her and I never will. If there were no strings attached I would enjoy continuing the sexual aspect of our friendship, even if it was at the expense of my unfaithful friend and the inevitable destruction of his marriage.

I wanted to go see my brother. He lived only a few hours away from where I lived. He was younger than me by three years. He had a beautiful wife. I did not and will not ever covet her. He is my brother not my neighbor. My brother was very successful. We were very close, making me feel equally successful. I left early in the morning, just as the Sun was rising. It was all I could see as I got on the interstate and once again left this God-awful fucking town or city or whatever you want to call it. The rats in the sewers and on the subway tracks. The skyscrapers. The bodegas. Everything about it was just distasteful. I drove and drove.

I got caught up in some rush-hour traffic. Thousands of men and women embarking on their daily early morning commute to the lonely island of tedious office work and half an hour lunch breaks with the guy that doesn’t appreciate the value of silence. I think to myself that whoever designed the highway system in America was not very intelligent. I can’t think of a more chaotic scheme in the world. Thousands upon thousands of cars trying to merge and squeeze and bump and honk their way into a space that is not fit for this amount of volume. I guess when the roads were built the baby boomer generation was not anticipated. Who could have foreseen that type of population increase?

I am surrounded by an equal amount of American made automobiles and foreign vehicles. I am driving a Honda Civic. “Buy American” lost it’s luster when American jobs started mysteriously disappearing across various ponds and borders. I try to be patient in this mess of metal and multi-colored machines. Manufacturing geniuses. For miles I see nothing but the glaring red of brake lights. There are assorted state license plates furthering the melting pot mentality. I go through a couple of tolls, wishing the whole time I had an EZ pass. The radio station I have on is starting to fade to static. Instead of struggling to find something aesthetically pleasing I turn it off. After a few hours of stops and starts that remind me of children playing “Red Light, Green Light” I break out of the monotony. Every few miles I see Exit signs for towns that I will never have the pleasure of visiting, although I can only assume that they are mostly the same. Working class. Maybe poverty stricken. I wonder what GM plants are closing in their town. Did unions destroy your economy as well?

I see various billboards owned by Clear Channel that are intended to get my attention, but very few of them do. Thus far I think I’ve seen 6 or 7 Snickers brand billboards with comedic phrases on them like “Patrick Chewing” or “Dehungerize.” I am repeatedly informed about the amazing deals at the local car dealerships and when I can see whatever new, boring, sitcom is playing on ABC or CBS or NBC. Sometimes a city will pop up and I try and make comparisons to mine just based on the short glimpse I take of them. I rarely change lanes and rarely speed. I hum to myself and eventually turn the radio back on to further explore the standard verses and choruses that are polluting the Clear Channel airwaves.

I stop to get gas and my interaction with the ordinary cashier is strange. In some odd way of appearing hip or cool she said to me “What do you need?"

For these types of situations I usually have a built in response that I administer typically without any thought. For as far back as I can remember, every time I’ve entered a convenience store or gas station the cashier has said “Hi, how are you etc. etc.” to which I respond “I’m fine, how are you?”

Not expecting this young girl to throw a stick in between the spokes of my proverbial social wheel, which had previously been rotating just fine, I replied to her with “I’m fine, how are you?”

Seconds after reciting my orthodox and pre-prepared response I realized that we were operating on two different wave lengths. I abruptly told her that I needed 25 dollars on pump 11. As I was walking out the door she said “Don’t you remember me?”

I said, “I’m sorry, darling, I don’t. But I don’t remember much.”

I filled up and merged back on to the interstate. Once again I noticed signs advertising upcoming rest stops with fast food restaurant logos on them trying to convince me to make a quick stop. I was uninterested in these pathetic multi colored pleas for business. I often wondered what it must feel like to be the subject of someone’s poetry or lyrics. As the lonely sounds of top 40 radio pulsated out of my speakers like unwanted sewage I thought about this. Renee often told me about how she tried her hand at poetry or story telling. I wonder how many times, if any, I was the subject in question. I hope I was. I wonder if I was the hero or the villain? I can imagine that I am now the villain plaguing her once romantic sheets of notebook paper. That is not what I intended. I continued on my way.

Young and full of running, tell me where’s that taken me? Just a great figure eight or a tiny infinity. My reaction to this was visceral. I was used to running, but not like this. I had been on the road for roughly three hours at this point. I had two tolls and two hours left. I allotted myself very little time for reflection. It was better if I just shut all of it out. You will not gain any insight, the best you can do is assume. At random moments I considered dialing her number. Or changing direction and going back to her. That is not how it will be. I continued on my way.

I came half an eyelash away from crashing a few times. After these few times where my heart rate increased I would sigh and thank the charm resting in a compartment underneath my steering wheel. Lord, give me grace and dancing feet. Just get me to that house. It only took nine words to get me on that path, “He’s done a lot for you. You know that.” And that was the dead-ass truth. I didn’t expect much this time. I continued on my way.

I was only about 15 exits away from my brothers house. I’m not telling you his name on purpose. As I came closer I started to recognize the scenery. Empty outlets, forsaken boardwalks, lost chicken wire. I was driving on roads that lead to nowhere, to nothing. I saw farm houses scattered throughout miles of flat land like they were accidental snowflakes that fell for no reason. Although I was still on the highway, the road was now desolate and my radio began to lose signal once more. I took the exit.

As I drove down the exit ramp I saw the usual corner store and gas station. I was here now. This wasn’t my home, but it was my family’s home. These people were not like me, but then again, nobody was really “like me.” I hadn’t told my brother I was coming and I didn’t pack for an extended stay. A few hours ago it seemed like the only woman I could love was dressed in a black asphalt dress with a yellow ribbon tied around her waist. And I rode her. I don’t think I feel any different. To get away from Renee I had to use more extreme measures… the road ran out so I had to look to the sky. For story telling purposes I do not indulge in plain speaking. I do not apologize for that and hopefully you can keep up.

My phone’s battery had expired and I chose not to bring the charger with me. I can imagine that once I turned it on I would have several missed calls and voice messages from Suzanne. I wasn’t concerned in the least bit. It was around noon now and normally my brother would be at work, but today is Saturday, so I drove directly to his house. It was cloudy. His porch lights were on.

It feels like the city never changes. Who is out there? I don’t know, I don’t think anyone is. I am out here. It’s me. What happens when you do it to yourself? What happens when I am the product? I am the cause and the effect… now what? I don’t care about anyone but myself. I don’t care about my friends. I don’t care about Renee. I don’t care, I just run. That is what I do. I run. Do you care about your family? I care about my family. It’s me. I’m out here. It’s your brother. You can stay as long as you want, yea. Come inside, let me take your jacket. I wasn’t going to come inside… I, I, I don’t even know why I came this was stupid. No, I won’t stay long. Please, just stay. I don’t want to go back. You have everything. Who cares what they think? What do they think? She’s asleep? I’m proud of you. You don’t have to. It’s me. I’m out here. It’s me. Let me take your jacket. Sit down… do you want something to drink? Eat? No? I should have just stayed in the car. I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t like taking things. Just stop, just relax, it’s alright. It’s alright. It’s alright. I fucking coveted her. She left me. I came back, that’s why. It’s alright, it’s alright. You’re okay now. It’s alright. Stay as long as you need. I won’t stay long. I know you won’t. It’s alright. It's alright. Thank you. It's me. I'm here.

It only took six words to get me on that path. “This is what we’re fighting for.”

To be continued...

William Wallace

Out Like A Lamb (Part 2)

So… In. Out. In. Out. My mother taught me to use deep breaths.

So. I was told not to covet my neighborS wife. I was also told to stay off the beach but I sat there anyway.

So I moved back to my old home and Christmas came early that year. I was back to the place where husbands cheated on their wives, neighbor stole from neighbor, and the sons and daughters got high and fucked in their parents beds. And ChristmAs came early. And I think I might covet my neighbors wife.

“What would you rather…” Hold on. Not yet. Was I writing a story? I think I might covet my neighbors wife this year when Christmas comes early.

I moved back home. Well, not home in the traditional sense, but you know what I mean and if you don’t then you still probably know what I mean. It was the post-Halloween, pre-Thanksgiving time of the year. That weird transitional phase between holidays. Nobody knows if it’s okay to put up the Christmas decorations yet. Some radio stations ease you in to the holiday spirit and others hypnotize you with the constant rotation of Christmas jingle and holiday cheer. There are the sales at all of the Halloween Adventure stores because , you know, it’s never too early to get ready for next year and fuck me there‘s nothing quite like a Spiderman costume at fifty percent off! Everybody is getting ready for Thanksgiving. Pumpkins linger and suddenly turkey’s are in high demand. The people that like to go to the mall are getting ready for “Black Friday.” And people that like people that like to go to the mall are also getting ready. I like to call them “thieves.” Wallets in front pockets. Oh, and Christmas came earLy. It seems that it comes earlier every year.

I like to refer to this place as “Dash American.” I’ll explain. Everyone you meet here is either Irish-American, or Italian-American, or African-American, or Polish-American, or Jewish-American, or Russian-American, or Native American. How come there’s no dash in Native American? Someone should be looking into that. Anyway, you see what I mean by “Dash American?” I cannot claim any of the dashes listed above and I can’t come up with any that could describe me. Maybe “Average-American.” Maybe “I think I covet my neighbors wife-American” if that is one, but I don’t think it is, so I guess I’m just an average American that might covet his neighbors wife.

Jesus, I hope you didn’t spend that weekend in hell for me. I fucking covet my neighbors wife. You’re not supposed to save me. Save them. Christmas came early again. You could have spent that weekend doing anything you desired. Maybe you could have taken some whore to a resort in Cancun and fucked her as much as you wanted while a short Mexican brought you pina coladas served in fucking coconuts. Fucked the way Joseph and Mary never did. I bet that is what Judas would have done. No, you had to be so righteous. You realize that I’m fucked because of you, right? How can I compare? What can I do that even comes close to what you’ve done? You turned water into wine. You gave a blind man sight. I’ve got nothing on that. But I do feel sort of bad for you, I mean, you really got the short end of the stick. You shouldered the weight of the world and we still use your name in vain and you take it.

Can you feel it? Seven long fucking months.

Your sacrifice is otherwise unparalleled. You could have been a father, but instead you chose to treat us all as your sons. They ruined it for the rest of us. Your “children” taught their children to believe that Mary was a whore. Your mother. They teach the youth that women are the root of all evil. Who ate the forbidden fruit? Who fathered Mary’s only child? That is what they teach. The image that they praise is of your death. They continue to mock your rituals. Eating your body and drinking your blood. The blood of Christ. And you still love them. They love nobody and you love them.

Was I telling a story? Yes, I was. Where was I?

So I moved back to my old home and Christmas came early that year. I re-established some lost friendships. It turns out that nobody missed me. I wasn’t surprised because I can’t expect the fountain to stop flowing just because I am on the other side of the pond. Does that make sense? I understand it. The old group of friends got back together. The first rule of acting is: never look at the camera. I don’t like that rule. I think if you applied it to text the rule would be: never address the reader directly. I don’t like that rule. It’s too impersonal. I like to feel like we know each other. The reader-writer relationship is pretty intimate to begin with. It’s like question-answer. There would be no reader wIth no writer and vice versa. No question with no answer and vice versa. We are co-dependent.

“What would you rather have, Pat’s or Geno’s?”

“Definitely Pat’s.”

“Yea, me too. You want to know why I can’t eat Geno’s?”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m afraid, but let me explain. I don’t stay away from Geno’s because I don’t like it. You see, Geno’s is like that girl that cheated on and fucked over your best friend. You hate her because he hates her and you leave it at that, but you know the real reason you hate her? You hate her because you’re afraid that even after all the fucked up shit she did to your best friend, she might actually be pretty cool, maybe even cooler than your friend. At least cool enouGh to where you might like her and maybe even lover her, but you could never do that to your best friend, so you just stay away and say ‘fuck her for cheating on you man.’ And he’ll ever know that you’ve been jerking off to her for the past three years. That’s why I don’t go to Geno’s, I’m afraid it’s better than Pat’s.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you think too fucking much?”

“Actually, yea. Your wife did last night when I was thinking about how I should fuck her.”

So you thought I was losing it in the last one? I can’t explain it either. We were all friends again but I had to have his wife. I loved her. I didn’t. She was despicable. I loved the thought of her. Can you even imagine what I do all day? I sit on my hands thinking about myself sitting on my hands thinking about sitting on my hands. It’s like my brain is looking into two mirrors reflecting back and forth into reflection eternity and I can’t make them stop. I took pictures and deep breaths.

My friend’s name was Jimmy. I say was because we are no longer friends. His wife’s name was Suzanne. I say was because they are no longer married. I coveted Suzanne. Christmas came early that year. Jimmy was an attorney or something like that but it doesn’t matter. He was one of those jetsetters. He had all of this nice shit, but for what? He prayed to a material Christ, but for what? He had a secretary that he was having an affair with. He also abused the narcotic commonly known as cocaIne. He told me these things in confidence. I expressed my desire of a double-date to Suzanne and insinuated that she should introduce me to one of her friends. She agreed and the four of us went out to dinner. I can’t remember my dates name because it is not important. Jimmy chose the restaurant and I have to say, I wasn’t impressed.

We sat and stumbled through a few minutes of awkward conversation. A few laughs here and there. My date was quiet and I sort of wanted to tell her how stupid she looked. Jimmy and I were both dressed nice, not too fancy, but presentable, clean shaven. Suzanne looked decent and professionAl. My date appeared sub-par. She was clearly the black sheep of the date. I wanted to make her feel so insignificant. I wanted her to feel like an ugly duck in comparison to Suzanne. I lost my desire to embarrass my date when Suzanne said “The service here isn’t very good.” She wasn’t impressed either! Lip service. It was like an early Christmas gift. I replied.

“You know Suzanne I was just thinking the same thing. I was a little bit surprised that Jimmy would choose such a rinky-dink establishment for our double-date. This second rate hole-in-the-wall must pale in comparison to the five-star bed and breakfasts he undoubtedly takes his secretary to when he’s fucking her repeatedly on his Chicago business trips. You did know Jimmy was having an affair, didn’t you? No? tell her, Jimmy. Oh come on, he works late four times a week, the constant travel, what kind of fucking attorney do you think he is? You didn’t know? Well I have a question for you, Suzanne, why do you think they call it the “Windy City?” Well, I will tell you. They call it the Windy City because of all the blow the out of town attorneys like old Jimmy-John here shove up their unfaithful noses right before they fuck their mistresses. You didn’t know that, either? I’m sorry Suzanne, but your husband is a cheating, drug abusing, asshole. You guys have a nice evening.”

I left immediately after that. You should have seen their faces. Suzanne isn’t much of a looker, and she isn’t too bright, but goddamn she can act. She seemed so surprised at what I told her. She pretended as if she wasn’t guilty of all the same crimes. She pretended as if she didn’t love it when Jimmy would go out of town so she could have her young stallion spend the night and make love to her the way Jimmy never could. And the drugs? She was guilty as charged. She went to the bathroom every ten minutes. Either your bladder is the size of a peanut or you’re doing coke, sweetheart, and I’m putting all of my money on the latter.

Typically in every story there is a protagonist and the antagonist. I’m sure most of you are reading this thinking that I’m the protagonist, but, sadly, you are wrong. I’m the bad guy here, can’t you see it? There is nothing in the Ten Commandments about putting a powder up your nose. Yes, both Jimmy and Suzanne were guilty of infidelity but their Sunday mass trips absolve them of any wrong doing. They beauty of religion. A father or priest told them that if they confess they will be forgiven of all their sins. I bet they both sang like birds to that man. The messenger of God. That man that is most likely molesting young children underneath the pews. I wonder who he confesses to? Does the church pardon him of his sins? Do they look the other way? Those crooked fucks. That is not what God or Jesus or Mary had in mind. They were pure. I am the protagonist because I don’t go to church and I covet my neighbors wife and that is a sin. But I don’t want to be forgiven. I just want to make peace with it. I’m the bad guy here. And fucking Christmas came early.

“Oh, Thomas, was that you sitting over there on that park bench? Was that you sitting you there dead to the world? Was that you over there with your head in your hands, your stare as distant as the Midwest Moon? Was that you with the flashy clothes? Was that you eating too soon? Was that you stealing from the poor? Was that you on the park bench hunched over like the sloth? Was that you that let rage hold your tongue? Was that you in despair over another’s goods? Was that you with your pride always feeling so proud?”

Now that you mention it, I think it was me. I killed the livestock and sent the locusts. I turned the water red. Yeah, that was me. I got up from that lonely park bench and got into my car. I turned up the radio but my car plays a different tune… “The Sun is up, it’s all I see…” And I pass the pedestrians. One hand full of hope, the other full of shit. And a rope. They go home and at night they say their Hail Mary’s, hands clasped together tighter than a bullfrogs ass. Or a Jews wallet. Or a Catholics trigger. Or a Muslims detonator. Or a rapists grip. Or a Turkish prison. Or a suicidal noose. Or a child’s closed eyes. As stiff and upright as petrified wood and that is more than just a simile. And then they sleep. The Sun is up, it’s all I see. I am awake.

“Set ‘em up for the Gold Medal Kids.”

And we drank away everything and never said a word. We cussed like sailors and never said a fucking word. Christmas came early and we sinned as sinners do all night because in the morning we are not yet found. Set them up for the Gold Medal Kids. Now that I split them up I was ready to make my move and I did. The first night was a long one. I sat on my hands on the edge of her bed thinking about myself sitting on my hands thinking about myself sitting on my hands and she slept and slept and maybe she was dreaming about me or Jimmy or Christmas or who she was going to fuck tomorrow or where she was going to get her blow the day after tomorrow. None of that mattered. I left before she woke.

The Sun is up, it’s all I see.

To be continued…

William Wallace

Out Like A Lamb Pt. 3 will be out in February.

Happy Thanksgiving, Holidays, and Valentine's Day.

I'll be back soon.

Acts of Silence

Any text in italics has been provided by AFC Adrian Connors and can be heard in lyric form on an unreleased song by "The Machinists Hands." They have been used with his permission. This is dedicated to him.

It is also dedicated to my Mother and Father, my Brother, and my Grandparents.

This begins in 199-whenever. Autobiographical memory can start as early as ages 3 or 4. Memory loss can start in the mid-20’s, with effects increasing into the 30’s and 40’s. Alzheimer’s, an incurable, degenerative, and terminal disease, is associated with, among other things, memory loss. It is generally diagnosed in people over the age of 65, although it can occur much earlier in the form of Early-onset Alzheimer’s which accounts for approximately 5-10% of all Alzheimer’s patients. I am old enough to have my autobiographical memory intact and I do not currently suffer from any type of Alzheimer’s and it is questionable if I ever will because the disease is not hereditary and everyone is at risk. That being said, there is a chance I may one day be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, so I’d like to write this before then, because the following is based off of memory and nothing else. It should be noted that this is MY memory, this is they way I remember things, so do not be surprised if, in some strange way of preserving those close to me in my mind, some things I write are not entirely true. And we proceed…

“I’ve been gaining, gaining strength.”
This is true. It’s like a freight train at full speed. It is a law of motion. It is gravity and inertia. “Objects at rest stay at rest. Objects in motion stay in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.” I am not peaking. It is a steady pace. A long desolate road. But I’m not driving on the road, I’m building it. Sometimes when I pull up to that stop sign I don’t even shift into first gear. I keep it in second because I’m afraid of losing my momentum. The last statement is obviously fiction, because as poetic as it would be to give something like momentum extreme power, my biggest concern at that stop sign is not my momentum, it is the well-being of my five speed transmission. So I shift into first and regain momentum.
“I’ve been gaining insight into who’s choking and who’s selling lies this week.”
Those actions are so foreign to everything that I know. Your branch didn’t fall, you sawed it off. Swiftly and tactless, I might add. You are the hands around the neck. I was only there for the neck not the hands. Yea, it’s selfish. But my opinion on the subject only exists on this page and whoever reads this will never be exposed to any other story. So I guess under this spotlight, I win, which is convenient, because no one ever asked my opinion on the subject and I doubt they ever will, but I know what was said next to her hospital bed that night and sometimes I wish she’d heard it.
“A golden watch that should be mine.”
When will you get to pass down your golden watch? When will my name end up on a wall? Is that even what we want? I know it wasn’t the physical aspect. That was rightfully yours and somebody ripped it away from you. You still haven’t sold me on this being about a watch. I’ll resume later.
“I think of the faces trapped in lockets.”
Like the one that left alone. I learned a lot of things about strength from you. Undoubtedly an example of strength and resolve. Like a rock. And an equal example of weakness and fear. I noticed that you passed it down. I live with it. I’m writing with it right now. Which is why this subject will continue to stay unwritten. Next paragraph.
“That golden watch that should be mine.”
It has to be a metaphor. The golden watch could mean a lot of things. It could mean that you doubled your capability, ambition, and brutality to defend it. Besides it being a watch, I think it is a symbol for a lot of other things that were taken away from you that you had the rights to. It’s not just a watch. It’s a family. It’s not just a city. It’s a family. You can always have a watch and you can always live in a city, but you can’t always have that sense of family and it seems like losing the sense of family is worse than losing the physical family. That should have been yours.
“When I feel like I should leave, we disagree.”
When adults were children their fathers used to rake the leaves into a big pile so they could jump into them. When the kids were done playing in the leaves the fathers would put them into trash bags for the trash men to pick up the next morning. It is not until the adult is mulching up the leaves with his 22 inch lawn mower that he realizes a pile of leaves has not been present in this yard for many years. This isn’t such a big deal because no children currently reside in this house; it is just striking how fast time went. But it is a juvenile thought because we all know time isn’t fast or slow, it is just time, just seconds. Just as some parents fly flags or yellow ribbons when their sons go to war, some parents stop raking leaves when their sons become adults. Some children become adults and some go to war and both of these options frighten parents and most of the times the parents and children disagree. They agree to disagree and disagree about nothing.
“I’m told to stick to my convictions and commitments, say thanks for the two weeks before you leave.”
This is now a sacrifice. It is a young war. Sometimes sons go to war after their fathers go to war and when the sons become fathers their sons might one day go to war and the cycle is perpetual. Sometimes the sons die at war and unless a family has several sons or the family has only daughters, the cycle ends there. Sometimes the sons keep fighting forever and so it has been throughout history, sons go to war and fight to one day see their sons go to war and fight. Sons might like war but I don’t think fathers with sons do. It is the sons war now. Our war.
“I’ll only be out half the night.”
I remember loving that house. I still love it. From a very young age I told myself that if I had the opportunity I would purchase it. There was always so much life, so much pride. We are proud. We are strong. We have plaques and medals proving our value. And if life is split into day and night then as sons we have guided others through the night like a light from above. Half the night. I still can’t stop the goose bumps when I hear the song. I think it’s something you have to grow up with. The houses you moved into after I didn’t love as much. Or at all. There were no memories there for anyone involved. Don’t blame the houses, it was our fault we let them slip away. The train yard were we would watch the trains go by. Watching football on Thanksgiving in your living room. Christmas morning in the family room. The way you always unbuckled your seat-belt when we entered your neighborhood. We let those memories slip away and time took them from us. Time took them. No. Time is not a giver or taker, it’s just time. It’s just seconds.
“You know my city’s got simple ways of keeping me coming back.”
When the sons go to war and live they will come home. They may not be the same as they left and this saddens the fathers because they were once that son that changed at war. The mothers and daughters don’t understand. Maybe if the son is the first in his family to go to war then even his father will not understand because not every father goes to war and not every son goes to war. The ones that do go to war have to come back. They are not told how to go back, only to go back. “How does this work?” a son might ask his father. Nobody has an answer. You will return to your home because for years and years and years you thought everything was so complicated and chaotic but when it is time to go home you go because of the simplicity. Not everyone that wrote a letter was being selfish. Maybe some people really are proud. Maybe you really did leave some people behind and they miss you. Maybe some of the letters are not written out of vanity. Maybe these are the reasons you go back. Maybe not.
“So slow to respond that we left you behind.”
You might think you left the others behind when really they will leave you behind. You have gone away and everyone else is right where you left them. Still learning, still drinking, still fucking, still remembering, still getting high, still laughing, and not one of those times do they think about you. And if the young girls write you letters it’s only to fulfill some sort of personal obligation they feel… or it gives them a certain satisfaction as if their letters are making an equal sacrifice just because they’ve traveled as far as the recipient. So if the letters that they wrote are making the trip and the sacrifice and they wrote the letter, then in some small way they are also sacrificing. False. It is the same. It is the same for the young girl writing her Navy boy who is stationed in Jacksonville. And it is the same for the young girl writing her Marine boy who is stationed at Camp Pendleton in California. And it is the same for the young girl writing her Army boy who is stationed at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. And it is the same for the young girl writing her Air Force boy who is stationed at Sheppard AFB in Texas. And it is the same for the soldier overseas. However ignorant or soul-less that may sound, I think we’ve all become numb to it. There has to be an end to justify the selfish means.
“We never gave up we just turned our attention and that’s exactly where you stay.”
You would never know it by looking at it but that vacant space was once alive. I swear it was once alive. There were colors and sounds pouring out of it. Now it’s empty. Empty just like the room felt two and a half hours away. I swear we were once full of life. Now it’s like staring into a black hole. You are looking, but nothing looks back. There’s nothing to see here and nothing gazes back at me. I try so hard to hold onto the memories that I love, but I’m realizing that they are being replaced by a shell. It’s not that I’ve given up, there’s just no point in looking back. The past is gone. The present is now. The future is not yet written. I can only be concerned with right now. I can’t disagree with what has happened but I still argue with it because I’m discontent with the outcome. What a strange argument. I can’t not believe in the past.
“Waiting for your train to make its debut.”
Food for thought: Camels do not store water in their humps as is commonly believed. The humps are actually a reservoir of fatty tissue. Concentrating body fat in their humps minimizes heat-trapping insulation throughout the rest of their body, which may be an adaptation to living in hot climates. The camel is the only animal to have replaced the wheel (mainly in North Africa) where the wheel had already been established. The camel did not lose that distinction until the wheel was combined with the internal combustion engine in the 20th century. We are not the camel. Yet. The camel bleeds the sand from my fathers boots. But mine is still red. I don’t remember everything. I remember understanding the sacrifice. I embrace the sacrifice because I am a son and not yet a father. I don’t remember anything.
“I think of the faces trapped in lockets.”
I think of them too. Not familiar faces. Faces that I don’t know and never will. Faces that no one in my family knew. Sometimes I’m curious about their names. I no longer reek of innocence but I am not yet bored and tired with monuments. I fantasize about having my face in a locket and my name on a wall for some young boy to read and maybe he’ll even touch my name and wonder who’s son I was. Or maybe a young woman will see it and she can romanticize about finding herself a young soldier to elope with and pester and argue with because she‘ll never understand that his life is not a movie scene. It must be very Shakespearean to be capable of thinking those things. Unfortunately there was nothing poetic for those names and faces when they were more than just names and faces. Whatever caused their names to be etched into that wall was actually the exact opposite of poetic: frank and to the point. Deadly. Misunderstood. Malnourished. Weary. Deadly.
“That golden watch that should be mine.”
Poetry sucks. It is sad and depressing. Full of hidden meanings and random phrases of bullshit. Unfortunately, sometimes I find myself trapped in a mindset that is similar to poetry. I’d like to get away from that for this part. Let’s be frank: everyone’s favorite thing about letters is that you can say whatever you want, however you want, in whatever tone you want and the best part about it is you don’t have to listen to any response. You say what you want to say and that’s it. Nothing poetic or artistic. You either say “I love you” or “I hate you.” What would I write in my letter? It would be easy to say “I hate you” and very typical to say “I love you,” but I have to say something different. Or maybe I’ll just say nothing. Maybe not.
“Standing in the path of photographs soaked in air.”
It is hard to argue with some things and I’m slowly realizing this. It is hard to argue with the past. It is hard to argue with a photograph. You lose. The photographs don’t change, you do. Some Native American tribes refused to let the white men photograph them because they thought they lost part of their souls when the pictures were taken. Now we all know goddamn well this is a ridiculous and, for a lack of better words, an utterly fucking absurd claim. But maybe it’s not all untrue. When you become a father and you look at photographs taken of your childhood, when you were a son and only a son, I think you realize that you’ve lost pieces of yourself along the way. Then you look at photographs of when your growing son had not yet begun growing and you realize that he’s lost pieces of himself as well. Should the photographs make you sad? Why do we cherish innocence and naivety? Because fathers wish they didn’t bleed sand and sons won’t know the difference until they are fathers and then they will become saddened by the photos just like their fathers were. The cycle is perpetual. Sons and fathers bonding over old men’s wars. Some things cannot be taken and some things you give away, but cigarettes are just cigarettes and this picture deserves a frame.
“We’ve never taken larger steps before.”
I’ve been told that the tone of my writing is despondent. I have to say that I disagree with that. Although at times I can see clearly where someone would think that, I feel like I should defend myself by saying that the majority of things I write are riddled with positivity. It is not my obligation to identify this as the writer, it is yours as the reader and if you can’t identify the positives then I think you are the one who is despondent. The despondent one just looking and searching and digging and clawing your way to more hopelessness. Praying that you are not the only one that feels so alone. Hoping that someone else is more hopeless than you. If anything I’ve ever written comes off despondent it probably has more to do with my extreme disinterested in what the reader gets out of my writing. Or my extreme disinterest with what is considered “literature.” Or my extreme disinterest with conventional writing standards and correct grammar and sentence structure. Or my extreme disinterest that some how, some way, dead soldiers became fourth page news. But no, I’m the despondent one because I don’t write love songs to girls. I am not despondent I just refuse to fall into any societal black hole. The world is fucked but I am highly optimistic that we are doing unbelievable things for ourselves. I think you know what I mean by “we.” Nobody even noticed this.
“There just clothes; your just a voice.”
I plead the fifth here. Silence is not golden. Silence is ugly. I believe silence speaks volumes and I have more respect for the men that keep quiet than the men that speak out. Fuck it, you would never know the difference anyway.

Yours truely,

WW

Out Like A Lamb

“A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?” - Albert Einstein.

All I could hear was the ocean. It took me a couple of seconds and senses later to realize that I was actually sitting on the beach. It was hot and bright. I got to my feet and heard a voice coming from behind me.

“Friend, friend, get off of the beach. Get off of the beach!”

I was drowsy. I turned around and saw an oLd man standing on a concrete path about 25 yards away from where I was standing. The urgency in his voice caused me to run towards him.

“Are you okay?” He asked me his question before I could ask my question.

“Yea, yea I’m fine…”

“You know you’re lucky, right? It’s dangerous on the beach.”

I was extremely confused by his latest statement, but I was just regaining my bearings and I wanted to know where I was.

“How did I get hEre?”

The old man started laughing and his body language showed signs of relief. “Friend, you’re asking the wrong question. Come inside, friend.”

I couldn’t understand why this old man kept calling me “friend.” We weren’t friends. I’d never met this man before in my life.

Everything was so blue. The sky and the ocean. The man took me in his house and it was blue. It was soothing. My previous environment was nothing like this. It was all gray. It was bleak and colorless. The sky, the buildings, the streets, the people… they were all gray. I was very grateful that the man invited me into his home. The old man and I had a long coNversation about how I wound up in his house. He had a very intriguing ability of avoiding questions. No new information was presented to me. He only told me to stay off of the beach. I obliged.

The old mAn lived with his old wife. They had never had kids. I couldn’t believe how happy they were together. They offered me a place to stay and although I was reluctant at first, I obliged. I suppressed any feelings or thoughts of a former life. I let my past go. I hope no one misses me, and if they do, I hope I said goodbye before I left.

Fast forward. Say it.

After a few weeks of getting accustomed to this house and this family, I began to venture out into the town they lived in. It was a quaint little town. There were antique stores, sea-side restaurants, and white picket fences. It was the sort of town where Veterans took care of their families, the boys went off to war, and the girls waited patiently by the window. It took me awhile to get used to this. I was from a place where husbands cheated on their wives, neighbor stole from neighbor, and the sons and daugHters got high and fucked in their parents beds. I know I wasn’t normal before this, but I certainly wasn’t normal now.

It’s always easier to stop at the beginning. Do you believe that she missed…

Have you ever seen a baseball get hit so hard that the seams literally come unraveled? That is exactly how I felt. Whichever seamstress stitched me up didn’t do a very good job to begin with, but I knew that with one swift blow I would fall to pieces. I had dreams of my skin falling off of my body and standing in a dark room exposed. Only bones, muscle, and fatty tissue would be visible. I felt alone and vulnerable.

Needless to say, I had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t the bed or the room. Both were quite Comfortable. Let me describe the room. It was about the size of a bedroom you would find in any hotel or motel. The walls were painted blue and there were portraits of ships and sailors everywhere. The old man told me once about the time he served in World War 2. He is probably the most interesting man I’ve ever met. The bed I typically tossed and turned in was a twin size bed with white sheets and a comforter that had a floral pattern on it. Sometimes I laid on the carpeted floor instead. It was also blue, but a darker shade than the wall. I had a window and a lamp that sat on an end table. I had my own bathroom that was already furnished with shampoo, soap, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and deodorant. There was no toilet paper, though. It was as if the old man and his wife had been waiting to find some stranded young man for years. A stranded young man that didn’t need toilet paper. I bought some of my own.

The sheriff shot the deputy. Who is the sheriff?

The view out of my window was of the beach. I loved it. I needed the serenity. The old man’s wife told me that reading helped her sleep, so I went to the local library to check out some books. I had never read much before this, so I though I’d give it a try. I walked to the library and was looking through some mystery novels when I noticed that the young girl working behind the counter was the most beautiful girl I had seen in my entire life. My face got red just from looking at her. I never get nervous. What was this feeling? In a state of confusion, I rushed out of the library.

It took me a few nights without sleep to really gather my thoughts. I went back to the library and faked an interest in literature to spark a conversation with the girl. Her name was Renee with three “E’s.” She made it a point to tell me that. We were the same age. We wound up talking for a half an hour when she abruptly ended the conversation. She had to get back to work, but she said I was a good listener so we made plans to talk further the next day. I didn’t sleep that night for several reasons.

Our first real conversation went great. I didn’t talk too much about myself, but I found out a lot about her. She was attending the local university as a creative writing major. She said she loved to read and write. I asked to see some of her writing, but she refused. She was not originally from this town but had lived here for the past 3 years. She said she loved guys that were well-read and had an interest in writing. She loved men that could sing. She loved men that had seen the world. She loved men that were always there for her. She loved men that she could leave.

Stop that.

She worked in the library because she obviously loved everything about literature. I wanted her to like me, so I started reading. I wanted to become so familiar with Hemingway, and Dickinson, and Austen, and Dickens, and Twain, and Stevenson, and Wollenstonecraft, and Shelley that I could quote them on command. My life became completely consumed by books and Renee. I visited the library to see her regularly and we began seeing each other. I still couldn’t sleep.

This would turn into that swift blow that would make me unravel. .

Why is it that loyalty…? God, I hate this question. Why is it that loyalty is so hard to come by?

sesir nus eht erehw, tsae eht ni uoy ees ll’I

I decided that the only way I could truly impress her was to write her a story. I wanted her to be so enamored by my words that she would fall in love with me, just like the stories in some of the books that I’d read. My obsession went from reading to writing. I started to expand my vocabulary and worked on my prose and syntax. I developed my own style but I had a problem. Nothing I could think of satisfied myself, so why would it satisfy her? The dark blue carpet of my room changed to a fast food playpen full of crumpled up pieces of paper lined with scratch marks and fuck ups. The lighter shades of blue that had once decorated my walls had given way to the assorted colors of Post-It notes littered with streams of unconsciousness. My room had become a mess of random words and phrases. I was throwing different colored paint at the wall and praying that one would stick.

In my head I secretly referred to Renee as “Ms. Steak.” Mis-stake. Get it?

All I did all day was write. My public behavior was still serene, which was a stark contrast to my erratic behavior behind my closed door. The old couple became somewhat concerned, but since I still appeared to have my hygiene and bearings intact, they let me do as I pleased. I still did not sleep. Most nights I stood in the center of my room in the darkness racking my brain for an idea. Luckily for me, I had no friends to lose, but I can imagine that if I did have friends they would have left me stranded in that room.

In the same sense that every child wants to grow up to be a hero, every grown up wants to die with someone. The failure rate is astounding. We are not heroic and we all die alone.

“Play the one in Drop D.” Children were laughing June. “I tied my heart to your words, double knotted and a noose.” I don’t want them to sing sad songs anymore. But they just get sadder.

For weeks I struggled. Occasionally Renee would take the train back to her home. During these periods I rarely left my room or put down my pen. In case you were wondering, I write with a very expensive pen. Sometimes I would unscrew the tops and take out the ink stick and let it bleed all over my papers. I would get it in on my hands and my face and some of my clothes, but it would wash off. Sort of how I would later have to wash other things out of my life. Or sort of how I washed up on that beach. Or sort of how I’ll probably wash away with the tide.

Renee came back to the town one weekend with a dramatic change of heart. She no longer thought we should see each other.

Pitch. Swing. Contact. My seams fell out. One by one by one by one by one by one by one until there was nothing left. Batter up.

Where did we go wrong? Was there ink on my hands? What were we talking about? I’m still not sure what happened. I felt like I was choking. I was alone in my room gasping for breath. There were so many questions like: Why is it that loyalty…? You know I hate this one. Why is it that loyalty is so hard to come by? This is wrong. I am wrong and you were right and I’m sorry for it.

A moment of clarity. Epiphany. I sat on the beach Indian style searching for seashells. The grass was too high. I think. When was the moment of clarity? I think when the tide rushed in. Or was it out? I don’t think it was anywhere near here. The old man just wanted me off of that beach. So many questions like: How calm could I pretend to be?

Everything was frenetic at once! Do you believe that she missed… believe that she missed anything? Do you?

A week or two later I felt fine. My room was still a mess, but I didn’t want to sweat the small stuff. I even went back to the library to check out some books. Checking out books! I was cordial with Renee, but I wasn’t going to the library to read. No fucking chance. When did I ever read at the library? Never. I finally found words for her. I finally wrote her my masterpiece and I was going to mail it to the library. Post-script and put out against the elements. I actually didn’t write a post-script but I meant to. I just forget a lot of things. (I hope my hair looked okay.)

It read something like this:

“There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”

No. No. No. That’s not right. Excuse me.

[This is usually when the page breaks. Or when the film runs out. I said it was easier to stop at the beginning.]

Page break.

It read something like this:

“I am well read, but I don’t read. I am well versed, but I don’t sing. I am well traveled, but I rarely leave. I am always here, but I’m never home. I am heartbroken, but I’ve never been in love. I am tired, but I’m barely awake. I am never home, but I am always here. I am alive…”

I don’t remember the rest of it because I only made one copy. I think that was how it went. It might have been different. It should have been different. Maybe I left something out. Do you believe that she missed anything? I hope nothing was left out. I don’t remember the rest of it because I only made one copy.

I mailed the letter to the library. I don’t know if she ever received it because I left that town the same day. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone, not even the old man and his old wife. I greatly appreciated what they did for me, and I regret that I didn’t thank them in person. I left with just the clothes I had on and my money. If there is one thing I want her to know is that the next time she got on that train, I’ll be in a plane. She did not do the leaving. I did. I left. All for the librarian. If I had time I would explain myself. Are you listening? I am out of fucking time. I hope I didn’t leave anything out. I hope didn’t leave anything. I hope I didn’t leave. I’m already gone.

Everything was calm at once.

I’ll never be an accomplished writer because the sad truth is that if you’ve read one love story you’ve read them all. Don’t they always turn out the same? Every time. Don’t you always want more? That’s the key. You have to leave something to be desired. So I will end this the same way I’ve always ended everything. I come in like a lion and go out a like a lamb.

I still don’t know why the old man was so worried about the beach.

Sitting at the bottom of the deep blue sea,

Catching fishes, for my tea!

We all jump up,

With a one, two, three!
　
William Wallace

Nickles And Dimes

Setting: Mid 1920’s
Location: Brooklyn, mainly the neighborhood of Bensonhurst
Tone: Past-Tense

“There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”

“What?”

“I said keep it fucking moving.”

This is typically how it went. It was Brooklyn. There was murder, rape, assault, theft, and extortion. Even though most of us were from Dyker Heights we stayed in Bensonhurst. Nobody really gave us any problems, mostly because they knew who we were. This was our neighborhood and nobody could ever take that away from us. The Jews took up about half of the population and even though they had their little gangs they knew deep down we ran this fucking neighborhood.

Most of us were 2nd generation. We were the soldiers, the ones that carried out the orders. The ones above us were the ones that came from Italy. None of us were made men yet, but because we were in the organization by either family or friends, we basically had a license to do whatever we wanted. But we kept ourselves straight. We didn’t fuck around on our girlfriends or wives and we didn’t fuck around with the drugs. That was for whoever lived out in Manhattan. We didn’t want that shit around here.

It was business as usual this time of year and business was booming. They say that there’s no business like show business. They are wrong. Fall was creeping up on us and it was coming in a hurry. The leaves were changing on the trees and the cracks in the sidewalks were loosening up. It was getting darker earlier. Everything was turning gray.

For the sake of storytelling, I’m going to leave all of my personal business out of this. Who I am, the location of my birth, my marital status, and the possibility of my parole aren’t relevant to this. Don’t get nosey.

These fucking speakeasies were popping up everywhere. It was starting to get a little out of hand, but we were doing a pretty good job of keeping the profits in our pockets. Our speakeasies and blind pigs were exactly that: ours. As a soldier, my basic responsibilities were to go the speakeasies and get the money that they owed us. Why did they owe us money? Because we owned the neighborhood and if there was money to be made, we were going to be making it. If the owner gave us trouble, then we gave him trouble, and the owners typically obliged because they don’t like our trouble. It was that easy.

Was it violent? Yes, at times. I didn’t really give a shit, though. That was how it was. I wasn’t trying to change the world. Who the fuck was I? I was a foot soldier doing my job. If you look down on us then you are not only a hypocrite, but you are denying yourselves basic instincts needed to survive. Every man born into this world has three traits that are inherent. Fight, fuck, and eat. The “Napoleon Complex” is not limited to small men. We all have it. We have a burning desire be the alpha dog. The weak will not survive. I was not going to be weak.

Stop. Rest. Intermission. Concession.

[Break]

Resume.

I was dying to be something that I wasn‘t. I was dying to be something more than I already was. I made good money. I supported my family. What’s next? Sun, cradle, moon, hearse? That can’t be right. But I don’t know what’s right.

If you ever thought that coming to this city was a good idea, then you are wrong. It’s so bleak and colorless. The sky, the buildings, the streets, the people… they are all gray. I’ve watched this city ruin good people. Innocence is a vice. I’m not even so sure that anything innocent exists in this societal black hole. We tried to act like we were saints, which in itself made us sinners. We justified our actions with the thought process that even though what we were doing was a moral injustice, it was okay because our actions were culturally accepted. I used to have a defense but now I don’t.

The specifics are not important. I don’t remember the date. I met some friends at a diner on 18th Avenue. We then went to meet with some of the made men. One of them told me that a guy on the Boulevard had recently opened up his own blind pig. The Boulevard was our area and he was trying to make money. We don’t get fucked. Myself and two others were instructed to pay this man a little visit and, hopefully, work out a deal with him. We drove. I rode in the back.

We arrived at the location, went inside, asked for the owner, and found him. We convinced him to sit down for a brief meeting. He was stubborn. The job was so predictable sometimes. The three of us were pretty seasoned veterans just waiting for our chance to accept more responsibility which meant more money, more privileges, and more glamour. The owners of these fucking places barely had anything to offer us anyway. If there was any extra money to be made it was nickels and dimes.

Since he didn’t want to co-operate we took him outside. We started roughing him up a little bit. Nothing serious had happened yet. Yet. A pedestrian walked by and asked us what was going on. I turned around and said, “There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”

“What?”

“I said keep it fucking moving.”

“I’m going to call the police.”

“Either you can shut the fuck up and keep walking, or you can go next. What’s it going to be?”

The pedestrian left. I’m not sure if they ever called the police or not.

Shortly after the pedestrian walked away we continued to extort the owner. We had beaten him pretty good. I pulled out my gun and fired three shots. My partners were dead. The owner and I were still alive. I think the third shot ran astray. I helped the owner get to his feet and he began thanking me. I did not speak to him. I searched through his pockets and took his money. He had exactly 45 cents in nickels and dimes. I looked at the change in disgust. I studied the coins. My face was imprinted on every coin. The years were foreign. I didn’t know what to say or think. The man shot me with a nickel plated .380. I stopped on a dime. I looked up at him from the ground and he ran away.

A wise man once told me that you should believe none of what you read and half of what you see. And there’s nothing to see here, so keep it fucking moving.

WW　

Sorry

Obviously I haven't posted anything I promised.

This weekend.

The Pot and The Kettle

The city was large and hungry. And poor and homeless. “Will work for food. Or money, or shelter.”

It was a statement. “Post no bills.” With three words the walls stayed empty. Naked.

There were tall buildings and long buildings; small buildings and wrong buildings. There were bridges and trees; syringes and disease. There were tourists and residents; florists and presidents. It was beautiful and I never gave a shit about it until now.

Believe it or not, the city was not always this large and I was not always in it. It is so easy to get lost there. Not me. It is impossible to get lost when you don’t want to be found. I just walked through the walls with the other ghosts. If only these walls could speak.

Inside the walls are the stories and the memories. They harbor the actions and I am just the conduit. They are screaming and we are all silent. We are able and unwilling. It is such a shame how little we use our bodies. We are only animals. We are born, we fuck, we reproduce, we foster our children, and then we die. It is an instinct birthed into every single one of us. But we are not only animals. We have evolved and now we have an inherent need for emotional contact. The walls are still walls that see everything. We are still just agents of procreation. I don’t consider myself a sucker for believing that there is more than that. We are just the conduits. The silent majority. Glorified apes. Universal Product Code.

Remember: for every rhyme there is a reason.

Rhyme:
There once was a boy who played in the park
From the time it was light until the time it was dark.
For hours and hours the boy ran around
Not causing a scene, not making a sound.
Behind the boy was the sketch of a city
Where the trees and the flowers were always so pretty.
Onlookers laughed at the boy in his joy
The boy with no pet and no friend and no toy.
People came and went with each passing day
Not one of them stopping with the boy to play.
The boy became sad that no one seemed to care
And quickly decided that the world was not fair.
He never grew to know his father or mother
And was certain he had no sister or brother.
No hot dinners to share with a caring family
No presents on Christmas, no decorated tree.
No comfort of home where everything is pretty
The boy felt abandoned, just like the city.

[Pause]

There once was a boy who played in the park
From the time it was light until the time it was dark,
For hours and hours the boy ran around
Not causing a scene, not making a sound.
Behind the boy was the sketch of a city
Where the trees and the flowers were always so pretty.
Onlookers laughed at the boy in his joy
The boy with his pet and his friend and his toy.
People came and went with each passing day
Most of them stopping with the boy to play.
The boy was so happy to see people care
And quickly decided that the world was not fair.
He grew up with a loving father and mother
And always made time for his sister and brother.
Hot dinners he shared with his gorgeous family
Great presents on Christmas underneath the tree.
The comfort of home, where everything was pretty
The boy felt wanted, unlike the city.

Reason:
On one fateful day these two boys convened
And everything was exactly as strange as it seemed.
The two boys grew close and managed to survived
And somehow became friends for the rest of their lives.
One boy felt wanted, the other was glad
That he made such a great friend who no longer was sad.

This is worship and this is tribute. This is no pain, no feeling. This is nothing. Just swallow everything. That being said, I’m changing it up. This time the feeling will be “to be continued…” instead of “good riddance.” I’m hoping that we can just leave it at “see you soon…” We are so small.

Everybody knows, everybody believes
Everybody goes, everybody leaves.
Nobody cared, nobody cried
I am not there, I did not die.

We are just the conduits and, somehow, no one is talking and the walls are still screaming. We are the ones that should be bridging the gap but instead we are destroying everything. I get it, we’re all angry. But do you even know what you’re angry about? I’ve abandoned it just like it abandoned me. Fuck it, it’s yours now. You can have it.

I’ve already adjusted. What the fuck makes you think I want to re-adjust? And I refuse to ever re-adjust. I am not calling the kettle black. I just can’t wait to see you.

William "ButtHead" Wallace

Fuck.