mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

Month: March, 2006

The Price of a Quiet Man

I listen to the wind, to the silence and serene. I listen and I hear and I am glad. I part my mouth to speak, but have a second thought, I think I ought be pleased by what I have.

If I should want or feel, to do so is to scream, and screaming I’m afraid would break my vow. Though I entered life as such, crying, bloody, and afraid, now it shames me I could have ever been so loud.

A babe’s nature is no sin, only natural and right, and surely then I had no shame or past regrets. What might or would have been, if I’d had a chance to grow, to laugh and dance and let my nature stretch?  

It’s much too late to question what I did or didn’t do, much better to just accept it and move on. To analyze or fret would have no benefit, it’s better to just leave it, leave it gone.

To be a Quiet Man, I confess the cost is dear, but the prizes I receive are dearer still. I wouldn’t take the world, to be a louder man. The things I lack are nothing, so I feel.

The Last Spring Shower

When I was a child, I did as children do
I loved the whole world and it loved me, too
When I played in the field, Nature was my toy
And each new day exercised my joy
In those days, Man was my friend
I never thought that it would end

But then one day I saw it had
And saw I was no more a lad
And nowhere could a joy be found
And no friend could be seen around
So I cried out my last childish tears
And wept a dirge for wasted years

When those were gone, I dried my eyes
I knew a real man never cries
I knew I was not what I ought be
But I didn’t know what life had brought me
It’s said a real man can’t be so fettered
I know it’s said, but I know better

Ode to the Sun I

I praise thee Great Hyperion, gold titan in the sky
love thee Brave Hyperion, fie’ry beacon upon high
Thou givest the morning its splendor, and the day its light
At dusk thou art all beauty, and thine absence felt as night
Thou art lovely, holy, gentle, divine!
But when thou art angered, all vengeance be thine!
Though thou seeth me always and never doth err,
Perceived trespasses please pardon, avert thy fierce glare!
I cry out to thee begging my sins be forgot,
I hide from thy wrath, Lord! oppress me not!
Thou art Life-giver, Father, Protector, and Friend!
Those who despise thee, thou smolder and rend
love thee Lord Hyperion, body, heart, soul, and mind
I love thee fully, my Lord, so thou shalt love me in kind

It’s official: I’m addicted to fight videos on youtube

I don’t know what it is, but I can’t get enough of watching teenagers get into clumsy, awkward altercations outside of schools, in cafeterias, and on random streets. There’s just something magical about seeing the spontaneous spark of emotion and resulting manic action that makes me feel all tingly inside. I watch the UFC and Pride Fighting when it comes on basic cable, and yeah, that’s interesting but it’s just not the same. Those people know what they’re doing and they’re getting paid to do it. It’s professional, and that diminishes the magic. There’s a reason about two trillion sites on the web advertise “amateur porn” (even though nine times out of ten, you know it’s really not). Everyone likes to see people who don’t know what they’re doing because there’s some relatable kinship there. In the case of porn, okay, guys are just horny and want to believe in that unsullied “she’s not really slutty this is her first time to ever do anything like this” image. In fighting, it’s that you’ve seen a million fights like these before and they are nostalgic and infinitely more entertaining than seeing two guys who have no real antipathy for one another go at it in a ring with a ref and time limit.

And for whatever reason, I’m always convinced that I could beat up whoever is fighting. Well, not always, but usually. I’m usually sure I could take either one of the two guys going at it. Why? I’m not sure exactly. I mean, I never really got into that many fights myself when I was in school, but I won all of them. I wrestled a hell of a lot and nearly always won those, too. See, as a kid I always boxed and wrestled my father so I had no grasp of the concept “restraint” and when it was time to throw down in any fashion, I went all out. Typically, I went for a choke of some kind, too. I don’t know why, but given the opportunity, I always seemed to latch onto the other person and jam my forearm up into their windpipe. Usually worked, too, thanks to my nigh-skeletal arms on that side. This isn’t bragging, this isn’t made up. I was pretty damn good. But realistically, I know I’m not good enough to physically beat up most people in a fistfight. Doesn’t mean the perception isn’t there subconsciously, though.

On a somewhat related note, I always find myself rooting for the person with the lightest skin, regardless of the situation. I never knew I was racist until now, but apparently I am. In my defense, most of the videos I’ve seen have been of stereotypical thug black dudes and bitchy black chicks yelling ebonical curses, and on several occasions, jumping into fights to help beat up the other person. And of course white people never know how to fight, so it feels like I’m rooting for the underdog. Or something. The point is, subconscious racism is still racism and that’s wrong. Or something.

A scene near the banks of the mental shore

I stare out across the tranquil sea, to gaze at an ocean filled with eternity. Quiet, serene, immutable at last, hear o hear! I am free of my past. Here at the bank of my mental shore, the inland once near is at once no more. The sands of sanity quickly depart and the heart of my mind joins the mind of my heart. I turn to look, I look to turn. I know that I want, and I want, no I yearn. Yes, for clarity of a spiritual sense, I yearn to make all this all make sense. A divine act, this sudden erosion. A revelation! A vision of an explosion! A mushroom cloud funeral pyre searing away my last childish desires. A fiery furnace burning with truth to melt away the last lies of my youth. There is no beach and there never was, my memory slipped as it often does. The earth’s always been as it is now.  Knee-deep in mud, I take a bow. The world’s as it is only inside my skull and when I stop thinking the world will turn dull

Space Babble

A pan-galactic gasp for a air, a collective whisper to rattle the denizens out of obscurity and protect their insecurity from the ravages of space, time, and the superdense black holes that warp both around it.

The solar winds of interstellar space are passive and the massive rejection of mental reality manifests itself differently according to individual perception.

Creation is the product of imagination, and that which is only came into being because the collective consciousness believed that it was so. Such be the ideal, and thought itself a godly endeavor to continue where he stopped, and undo what was made.

Tremble under the whisper and shut your ears to it, but the listening of the mind cannot be stopped, and death itself is the greatest hearing.

Better late than

I came into church late and found the preacher already in the middle of delivering his sermon. I’d overslept, but promised God I would come to church, so I felt obligated. I slipped in through the doors quietly and sat down on one of the back pews, trying to ignore the empty stares now focused on me. Eventually, they all focused back on the pastor and the angel of death passed me a piece of paper.

“Glad to see you made it,” it read, “I was afraid you weren’t coming.” 

“I overslept,” I scribbled back before adding, “Better late than never, right?”

“My thoughts exactly,” he whispered after I’d handed it back. I tried to think of something witty to say back to him, but an elderly lady on the other side of him looked at us sternly and I thought better of it. The angel of death smiled at her until she looked away, but he didn’t say anything more, either.

I sat quietly until it was time to sing, then I sang quietly until it was time to pray, then I prayed quietly until God told me to speak up. I didn’t, and he had other people to listen to anyway.

Prayers finished and I began to stand up, then quickly seated myself again. The pastor was up at the front again and had a few more things to say. I had forgotten that today was the Lord’s Supper and in the place of the usual ceremonies of handholding and God-singing to close out the service, we among the congregation filed up to the front to get our allotment of grape juice and crackers in order to reaffirm our religion. It was just the same as it had been since I was a kid, sans the gusto…..

“And to think, God had his people destroy my high places for this very thing,” Moloch said to one of the Baals behind me, far too loudly I thought. We were all near the back again, so I don’t think anyone heard. “As if cannibalism is only okay when he says so. Pfft.”

“I think it might have had something to do with preferring the flesh of children over bread,” I broke in, “Not to mention leading his sheep astray.”

“You didn’t become his sheep until the New Testament, darling,” the Baal said, “before that you were whores, lusting after stallions and things of similar proportion.”

“We were sheep, too-“

“Besides,” Moloch continued, “I gave up eating infants a long time ago. The blood of sons of men is nothing compared to that of the Son of Man.” He made a slurping sound. “Mmm. Goes down smooth.”

We were both up at the front by now, so my retort would have to wait. The pastor placed the cracker on my tongue and I drank from one of the plastic thimbles, then took the long walk toward the back, ignoring Moloch’s subtle jeers. I just wanted to go back to sleep.

[Original title: “Late Arrival”]

So…where to next?

The sweet-bitter scroll sits poorly in my belly, but I keep it down and watch as seals are broken, the bowls are poured out, and trumpets blare. Flaming mountains crash into seas, point-three repeating of the world is no more.

But it’s a fine show and as my gut begins to ache, I sit down on the side of a hill to watch it. The apocalypse came, but the rapture came up short, and here I sit now, alone and depressed. Maybe John misinterpreted our Lord’s message, what with the sword sticking out of his mouth and all that. You’d think ol’ Lamb would have a tendency to mumble. And John was an old man by then, so his ears couldn’t have been what they once were. For all of the fireworks, the whole end of the world thing is really coming up short.

I mean, I never saw two witnesses, or saw them die, or rise again. I think I would have noticed them. Come to think of it, I never saw any prophets or beasts, whether they be from the sea or with multiple horns, or chasing down pregnant women clothed in suns. My knees bowed to no one and my tongue confessed nothing. If this was how armageddon was supposed to go down, someone really dropped the ball.

I stand up and vomit out the scroll, but it’s sweet again on the way up, so I don’t mind. I bet I could re-read it if I wanted, but it’s obviously no good. The fireworks are already over, I guess God has no more wrath left in him. Is that it? What a pansy. “In the hands of an angry God” my ass.

Well, there’s always the lake of fire and while the climate will leave much to be desired, I certainly can’t complain about the company. Better than watching the world end by myself again, anyway.

Let me tell you a tale like none you have ever heard

Crawling toward the darkening horizon on bent knee, the gopher tribe roars a plea to the Great Tree standing upright before them against the fiery sky, seemingly waiting to hear all pleas and answer them promptly. But the only response the gophers receive is the wind, and the tribe rushes the Great Tree in a rage, demanding an answer.

Up the trunk they scurry. “What is the reason for our suffering,” they cry with breathless wonder. “Why must our lot be pain and death?”

The Great Tree shakes its limbs and the gophers fall to the ground in mounds of furry flesh.

“You suffer because life is an absolute,” speaks the Great Tree, “And your words are mere contrivances.”

Then the Great Tree flies away into the night sky to join the stars, and the gophers look on for hours in a daze.

Forgetfulness

I remember

how he whined

and said I had no time

for him and that our problems were all my fault

I remember

how he’d smoke

and how my throat would choke

and the smell that clung to my hair when he was done

I remember

how he’d swear

about what “his whore” would wear

and say he’d give her something she could cry about

I remember

how he’d drink

and hit me because he’d think

the hickies on my neck were from someone else

I remember

how he cheated

with other girls that treated

him like a man and better than I ever could

I remember

all the breaks

and promises he makes

and how empty his words always are in the end

I remember

as we talk

I remember

and I grok

but then he smiles and somehow

I forget.