i smoke my pipe
and stare out at the snow
falling.
i realize
we can't be together
when the snow hits the ground.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
pretendpretendpretend (it feels good)
i zombie walk the dark hall
in my sleeping house,
arms spread out bracing for the hit
but instead my fingers gently brush the doorknob.
your words slice through me;
multiple layers both
fabricated and real.
maybe if i chant a phrase enough,
i will believe it.
there was always a misunderstanding
and still, you don't know me.
you cannot empathize.
you jab at me with a venomized tongue
but i know you are just hurt.
and i am here to tell you: it's ok.
you can't hear me
but it's ok.
and maybe
you just never cared anyway.
in my sleeping house,
arms spread out bracing for the hit
but instead my fingers gently brush the doorknob.
your words slice through me;
multiple layers both
fabricated and real.
maybe if i chant a phrase enough,
i will believe it.
there was always a misunderstanding
and still, you don't know me.
you cannot empathize.
you jab at me with a venomized tongue
but i know you are just hurt.
and i am here to tell you: it's ok.
you can't hear me
but it's ok.
and maybe
you just never cared anyway.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
today
It was a wet fall.
The pavement was damp, but not slick, and lay indifferent to the warm-tone leaves littering its surface. The air hugged every cubic centimeter of skin with its cool-but-not-yet-cold embrace. It was a comforting feeling.
He was on his way home, window cracked with dry fingers caressing the air currents with their callouses and white valleys. He had the radio playing but it was too silent and the road noises were too loud.
His motions were automatic, this route engraved into the neurons of his muscle memory. He scratched his unshaven face absentmindedly as he passed by his daughter's school.
It had been a tough day.
This man worked for a multinational conglomerate corporation in one of the subsidiary companies in a unimportant department on an unimportant floor. He made good money. He had a wife and a daughter. And like most Americans, he was unhappy.
Every day, every morning until every evening, he sent emails, had department meetings, graphed data and talked on the phone. He daydreamed often across his shift. His mind wandered into the darkest, most deviant places. Thoughts far too shameful even to be told to his life partner; his wife. They twisted and morphed from one topic to another, slithered in his mind like a sexy woman, beckoned him with the promise of addiction. And every time he agreed to let his mind wander. Every single time.
To coworkers, he was cold and distant; unfriendly and antisocial. His interactions existed only for business, never leisure, because he was never "there" to take part in such activities.
More often than not, while lying in bed with his wife at night, he felt guilty. He felt like he was betraying a pure soul by having such dark thoughts. This wonderful woman in his bed had not a clue of his true nature. But the more he thought, the more he desired. And he would never let go of these thoughts while still living such a shitty life.
He downshifted to take a turn, blinker flashing faithfully.
A fucking cop, he thought, spotting the blue-topped black and white trap. He resented cops. In the town he grew up in, there were no friendly cops. None of them smiled or protected the citizens. There was always an air of mistrust and fear in his small community, and it followed him into adulthood.
The cop was stationed at the country store, the unofficial hive for the police department worker bees. He made sure to drive extra carefully as to not give the uniformed scavenger a reason to pull him over. After he was sure he was in the clear, he let his mind begin to wander again.
The reason work had been so tough was due to peaceful protests opposing poorly distributed wealth that were occurring across the nation. As well-off as he was, human rights were his top priority and he fully supported the protests. However, many of his coworkers who were conservative did not. During an interdepartmental meeting, the topic was offhandedly brought up, and the consensus seemed to be that the protesters were lazy, dirty welfare cases looking for an easy way out. As reserved as he was, he felt that he was required to speak up.
"These protesters are hardworking citizens," he said, "who are finally speaking up against the financial inequality that has been growing in America, and they are doing it without violence. I admire and fully support them."
But of course, his words were felt like acid by his cohorts, and it didn't help that he was already seen as an antisocial creep. The backlash was incredible. Almost every soul in the room spit venom in his face. What about our hard work! They screamed. These protesters are trouble-making parasites! They screeched. My brother is a respectable police officer who is threatened daily! They squelched and cried and squawked. Suddenly his coworkers were growing in size, morphing into monstrous creatures that were fueled by anger and rage. You can't win against these beasts, the voice in his head whispered. So he folded.
He was yanked out of his nightmarish reflection by a vehicle that was speeding toward him on the other side of the road. He flashed his high beams on and off, not wishing the wrath of a sickeningly pleased police officer on anyone.
The sun was beginning to set.
He arrived home just as the sun dropped below the horizon, desaturating the atmosphere but casting a pink glow above the trees. He sat in his car for some time, just breathing. Every breath raised his chest, straining the buttons of his shirt. His long lashes sweeped his cheeks with each blink. He entered his home with a soft sigh.
The phone rang.
"Is this the Stanfield residence?" Said an authoritative voice.
"Yes, may I ask who is calling?" The man replied.
"Sir, I regret to be the one to inform you that your daughter was hit by a speeding car in front of Grove Elementary School this evening. She didn't survive."
The pavement was damp, but not slick, and lay indifferent to the warm-tone leaves littering its surface. The air hugged every cubic centimeter of skin with its cool-but-not-yet-cold embrace. It was a comforting feeling.
He was on his way home, window cracked with dry fingers caressing the air currents with their callouses and white valleys. He had the radio playing but it was too silent and the road noises were too loud.
His motions were automatic, this route engraved into the neurons of his muscle memory. He scratched his unshaven face absentmindedly as he passed by his daughter's school.
It had been a tough day.
This man worked for a multinational conglomerate corporation in one of the subsidiary companies in a unimportant department on an unimportant floor. He made good money. He had a wife and a daughter. And like most Americans, he was unhappy.
Every day, every morning until every evening, he sent emails, had department meetings, graphed data and talked on the phone. He daydreamed often across his shift. His mind wandered into the darkest, most deviant places. Thoughts far too shameful even to be told to his life partner; his wife. They twisted and morphed from one topic to another, slithered in his mind like a sexy woman, beckoned him with the promise of addiction. And every time he agreed to let his mind wander. Every single time.
To coworkers, he was cold and distant; unfriendly and antisocial. His interactions existed only for business, never leisure, because he was never "there" to take part in such activities.
More often than not, while lying in bed with his wife at night, he felt guilty. He felt like he was betraying a pure soul by having such dark thoughts. This wonderful woman in his bed had not a clue of his true nature. But the more he thought, the more he desired. And he would never let go of these thoughts while still living such a shitty life.
He downshifted to take a turn, blinker flashing faithfully.
A fucking cop, he thought, spotting the blue-topped black and white trap. He resented cops. In the town he grew up in, there were no friendly cops. None of them smiled or protected the citizens. There was always an air of mistrust and fear in his small community, and it followed him into adulthood.
The cop was stationed at the country store, the unofficial hive for the police department worker bees. He made sure to drive extra carefully as to not give the uniformed scavenger a reason to pull him over. After he was sure he was in the clear, he let his mind begin to wander again.
The reason work had been so tough was due to peaceful protests opposing poorly distributed wealth that were occurring across the nation. As well-off as he was, human rights were his top priority and he fully supported the protests. However, many of his coworkers who were conservative did not. During an interdepartmental meeting, the topic was offhandedly brought up, and the consensus seemed to be that the protesters were lazy, dirty welfare cases looking for an easy way out. As reserved as he was, he felt that he was required to speak up.
"These protesters are hardworking citizens," he said, "who are finally speaking up against the financial inequality that has been growing in America, and they are doing it without violence. I admire and fully support them."
But of course, his words were felt like acid by his cohorts, and it didn't help that he was already seen as an antisocial creep. The backlash was incredible. Almost every soul in the room spit venom in his face. What about our hard work! They screamed. These protesters are trouble-making parasites! They screeched. My brother is a respectable police officer who is threatened daily! They squelched and cried and squawked. Suddenly his coworkers were growing in size, morphing into monstrous creatures that were fueled by anger and rage. You can't win against these beasts, the voice in his head whispered. So he folded.
He was yanked out of his nightmarish reflection by a vehicle that was speeding toward him on the other side of the road. He flashed his high beams on and off, not wishing the wrath of a sickeningly pleased police officer on anyone.
The sun was beginning to set.
He arrived home just as the sun dropped below the horizon, desaturating the atmosphere but casting a pink glow above the trees. He sat in his car for some time, just breathing. Every breath raised his chest, straining the buttons of his shirt. His long lashes sweeped his cheeks with each blink. He entered his home with a soft sigh.
The phone rang.
"Is this the Stanfield residence?" Said an authoritative voice.
"Yes, may I ask who is calling?" The man replied.
"Sir, I regret to be the one to inform you that your daughter was hit by a speeding car in front of Grove Elementary School this evening. She didn't survive."
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