the end, it’s all the same:
over the stinking, barren, trash-filled plains roam the herds,
indistinguishable when you get far enough away from them.
though, my chosen imagery isn’t accurate enough.
Perhaps what I’m really thinking of isn’t herds,
but cogs, or automatons.
A place for everyone, and everyone in his or her place.
Take that butcher knife, bloody to the end of its handle,
and cut, cut, cut out everything—everything!—that makes you different,
that makes you unique.
Do it! Corners won’t do, no!
If you want to eat, you’ll obey.
If you want a roof over your head, you’ll get chopping and hacking and sawing!
If you don’t want to live in isolation, you’ll bow before the great god
You’ll do anything to gain its dribbles of crumbs. Anything!
Do so, however, and you can count yourself among the dead.
It doesn’t matter if you are still breathing, if you have a heartbeat.
There’s nothing left of you worth calling you.
Ignore this bit of free verse and get back to work for your bloated taskmasters.
After all, they represent all that’s left to you and of you. ❧
understanding of days is this:
I can’t do what you want.
I can’t believe as you do.
I can’t think as you do.
is tightness in your gait.
There is absence in your eyes.
Your colon clenches.
I can hear it from here.
got your children packaged so neatly
you could display them on a shelf.
They look like all the other children.
You’re doing a great job killing their souls.
It’s time to speed home, and curse at those too busy
taking in the grandeur that you’re too important to give attention to.
It’s time to flip open that cell phone with purpose and drive.
It’s time to unclench that colon enough to let the coal drop.
It was food once. But you couldn’t even tell what it was you ate.
It might just as well have been shit.
the raking of flesh and dumb inertia,
the crushing weight of empty years, the hot, lifeless breeze,
endless days in a lonesome fog, cash gone, eviction notices and betrayal thick
the singular belief in a project, the words, the images,
the solace in a surprisingly sure heart, past the apathy, the apathy, the
the abuse and narcissism and selfishness, the dust gathering in the corner,
the impinged shoulders and racing heart,
unforgiving daylight and clenching nights that could promise only a brief
respite from it
all, past all of it, there was still me.
often the “great” are called so out of the cesspool’s need and no other reason.
How they got that way isn’t questioned. To the cesspool, “great” is amoral. It
more than one’s seismic significance to the subsurface turds. A great good and
evil deserve the same attention, the same worshipfulness, the same veneration,
press, the same coverage, the same fame. It’s the seismic reading that counts,
merits of one’s deeds, one’s contributions, one’s psychosis or one’s penchant
murder. Virtue, or the lack of it, doesn’t count in the final tally.
for those with eyes to see, great goodness and great evil are measured by
different means. For true goodness is
greatness, and can only come about through individuals, through their vision and
determination, their persistence and optimism, their
virtue and prudence, their shunning of fame and glory. They have no need of
devotees or the applause of the burbling shit; they require no holy sanction;
disdain the blessings of the wealthy and powerful. True goodness stands alone.
evil, on the other hand, can only come about through the consent, silent
or otherwise, of the mass of turds, rich and powerful or not. It cannot survive
The turds spawn evil. It may have its genesis in a single person, that is true.
But there it will
surely die without the obeisance of all the shit who adopt it and raise it and
it the cheap imitation of love they have substituted for the authentic kind, but
frighten and anger them, for true love, like true goodness, requires courage of
can be found only in very few.
shit spew and spit their spreading evil as good; and with it they rape the
and climate and commonweal; they eviscerate the dignity of others who oppose
and, eventually, they destroy what’s left of their souls, if souls they have by
select an unimpressive and mundane individual to represent their evil, and
build him palaces and statues and conquering armies and revisionist constitutions
riches beyond measure.
good is bred and borne in and by individuals. Great evil is, and will be
1. Failure: Special read-through (Ch.2)
Notes: Alignment problems, here we are!
2. Book Three Melody: Read-through
3. Watson: Special read-through (Ch.3)
Notes: Not too many issues at this point.
4. Slum: Primary edit number three.
5. Love Story: Off
6. Rumpel: Read-through
7. Ant story: 300 new words
8. Dread Pirate Roberts (2): Off
Extra notes:Another needed day off tomorrow. Slum is putting it to me; so too Love story. Both are emotionally taxing. In good news, however, Kye and I have finally finished reading together the manuscript to Angel: Book Two, and I have uploaded it to the big retailers!
Community. Connection. Friendship. It's likely that even if I were William fucking Shakespeare, that I will not find any of them via my work. A hard pill to swallow, but one, after fifteen years, that is finally going down.