In chief

By all accounts, we have ourselves a villain.

Having played video games, we know villains..

We know their purpose is to strengthen our arm.

A hero cannot emerge from peaceful

Wanderings.

A hero must slay, overcome, be tested.

Birthed in the flame of battle,

The hero rises unscorched and victorious.

The villain is perched, but does not wait.

Each day that passes is one day lost,

One day left in the fire to be consumed.

We who play video games know

We are hero.

Know we are destined to emerge victorious.

How then can we not act?

The villain’s mask is off,

And our world strides ever-closer to the villain’s

Outstretched and hungry claws.

It seems our only response is wide-eyed,

Self-righteous martyrdom to the flame.

Our ashes, we hope, will serve as reminder

To future generations not to fall prey.

Games, it seems, have taught us nothing

 

 

.

Have no place

Today I resolve to

be

boring. I spend the days these days thinking, my

mind circling like bored lions in a zoo.

I miss things.

I miss the very things that

should

be the backbone of my life because I feel this undue sense of responsibility

for the fun of others. Not today.

Today I will be a member of the audience.

I will not have the witty response.

With my mind empty of

thought,

others will be free to swim within its jelly.

I will remember what it is like to learn. The

oppressive inner mirror, ever reminding

me of the ugliness of my thoughts, will be

sold for a book on bird watching.

Things so trivial as my

own

ramblings have no place today. Today I am boring

 

 

.

They and we

Who wins the game of they and we

When all the blood is spilt?

One side ends up decimated

The other ends in guilt.

They and we have fought for always

Of our side we’re sure.

And of their side their faith is placed,

Convinced that they are pure.

What is found through all the fighting,

All the hours spent?

One side has more people left

The other is unbent

 

 

.

second

Five in the sky.

I see five airplanes all at once.

My city is a transit hub,

A between,

second in a long list of cities.

Wanting to be a hopeful nineteen or thirty-one maybe,

Because

second place is the worst.

second place tried as hard as it possibly could, and found it wasn’t good enough,

Will never be.

Because first exists.

 

First was good that day,

Lucky.

Now, convinced of its own splendor,

Has only to lean back comfortably on the proffered laurels.

No need now to try.

second looks at this, their conqueror, and finds

After all

First does not care of this game.

Had not counted the tireless painful hours second had happily given.

Would happily give again.

First equated rank with importance,

And the very saddest thing about second, it agreed

 

 

.

A relaxing night in

What do I think will happen?

Honestly

I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?

I should just go

I’m going

I’m going to go

How far is it?

I mean, if it’s right off the train

What’s my excuse?

Why am I thinking of excuses?

Stop thinking of excuses

Cause I’m going

I said I would go

It will be fun

I’m going to have fun

It’ll definitely be fun

I’m excited to have fun

I feel like I haven’t had fun in a while

I mean, I’m fine

It’s just been..

I’m going

I’m going to go

What time is it?

I’m going to be late

I should go

I should go now

What do I think will happen?

Apathy

______, the blind son born of all my days past.

He bides in the shadows of my eye’s corner,

My progeny,

As large and shameful as masturbation.

This boy ignored into existence and fed on lack,

He needs for nothing and no one.

The son, after all, becomes the father by example.

If I had known I was raising a child. If I’d only known.

Practicing Scales

My keyboard is no longer a piano

Black and white keys playing qwerty melodies

Soundlessly pouring black and white songs

On pagesandpages

All are awls and sandpaper now

Poking holes

Smoothing once-jagged chair poems

Crafting

And I feel practical

After all, one can’t sit on a melody

A chair is useful

Useful

Useful

A song is gone as it is sung

Returned to the aether

Dealing in such ephemera slides the mind

Gasping only for comfort

Maybe an ottoman

 

 

.

Free Idea

Fill a Moleskine.

On the first page write some variation of the following:

Dear friend,

The contents of this notebook are for you. Yes you, the person reading this sentence. You’re the kind of good soul who not only picked up somebody’s dropped notebook, but cared enough to search the first page for contact information. As a reward, you get the contents of these pages. Read it and know that I am not profiting from your enjoyment, that an editor’s pen has not seen these words, that this is my raw brain and it ain’t always pretty. Make no mistake, this is now your notebook and you may do with it what you please. If I had my way, you would read and enjoy, then either pass along the book to one you think would like it too or nestle it comfortably on your bookshelf (if you don’t have a bookshelf then get a bookshelf, what are you doing with your life?) in hopes of revisiting our time together. Thank you for your eyes and understanding.

Best,

The writer of what’s to come

Write “Take me” on the cover.

 

great

I am scared of my wish for anonymity. For the things I am embarrassed of and for doing, saying, typing. I wish to hide behind the curtain and become a giant floating head festooned with green flame like Oz The great And Powerful. I am scared of this ego. This assumption of importance. As if my words were myself. My actions the person I am. Who’s to tell whether these words are me anymore than are the thoughts buzzing around in the assumption of a consciousness I’m experiencing. I am scared of these flowered words and how they cover the stench of true. That they blind me to how the world is and has been. The words creep inside every cavity and fill the damages in the world. Guild the flaws. Until the words become the world. Perhaps they always were.

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