Guinea Pigs and Lab Rats

if a trial-offered

fully voluntary

closely watched

meticulously monitored

sleep

was a viable option

as an alternative to

the rushing

crushing

devastating

destructive

thoughts

that parade around

this skull like

they fucking own the

joint

how could i ever

say no?

Reconstituted Nightmares

We were all deceived.

Arching his hand in the air, directing the flow of once-alive traffic like a demonic Poseidon controlling the seas, we come to understand. He had known all along. The old man's withered, parched lips had hovered precariously close to his ear, breathing words tainted with the foul staleness of age, bribing him to impossible power. The combination of odor and proposition was both irritating and enticing enough that he relinquished and accepted.

I had been the first to notice something was awry.

Entering a darkened room, black liquid decorated the floor in splatters. Eyes followed the trail, further and just a bit further, until a massive heap of bloody cloth was discovered. I squinted in the flickering light, trying to understand if what I saw was real. I screamed incoherently. I pointed frantically. They rushed to my side to understand the commotion when they saw it, too. Something very bad had happened here.

It was then that we heard it.

Scratches at the door.

"What was that?"

"It sounds like .."

"But .. but how?"

"Doesn't it kind of sound like .. ?"

Thuds against the flimsy, plywood barricade, like a basketball without an owner.

"It definitely sounds like .."

Why had we come here in the first place? Staring at the vibrating door, I recollected how this had all began. He had told us to come. He had led us here, all of us so naively laughing and telling stories as he brought us to our end. As the realization slowly crept into my skull, I turned towards him. He was smiling. Out of the four of us, he was the only one finding satisfaction in the impending attack. He had known all along.

His eyes caught the angle of my face and flickered ever-so-slightly. Not enough to turn and look at me.

Coward.

Just then, a scream.

I turned to my right to see decomposing, dismembered limbs dragging her away from us. Her long, black hair fell helplessly as her frenzied extremities attempted to grip onto something, anything to save her. She extended her hands to us, but she was already gone. We could no longer save her. Only three of us were left.

A too-convenient ax rested at my feet. Cautiously, I gathered it and braced myself to hack away at all that even approached me. He turned and faced us, taking steps backwards into the mass of rotted flesh, the remnants of those who once were. They quieted down and waited for his command.

An arch of his hand in the air and a wave began to descend upon my only remaining companion. He thrashed and squirmed and screamed. I tried to make contact between my blade and their skulls, but their teeth quickly sunk into his skin, the sounds of squirting blood and digested muscle drowning out his screams until there were no more.

I gripped my ax tighter, knuckles white, and turned to face him again. I tried to remember who he had been, but my instinct for survival was too strong. With the only battle cry I could muster, I swung my ax overhead and charged, driving the blade down with as much strength as my body would allow.

And then ..

some mouths are better left shut

one loses the right to lament
the daily ongoings of life
and the bigger happenings of existence
if that same one makes no attempt
at grasping the reins or wheel
or steering-device of his or her
metaphorical vehicle
in order to find that which will truly
bring
happiness.

This is the Only Escape

oblivious.

a screaming siren adjacent to ear

would barely grasp my attention.

but even i can see the unadulterated beauty

which pulls like magnets to a compass

in you.

there are others far more perceptive,

with bright eyes full of wonder,

drinking in all they could possibly discover.

you cannot stay blind

forever.

It Cannot Be Left Alone

it must be suppressed

before it will(and it will)

consume.

but how does one unhinge

a jaw and swallow it whole

if one was not fortunate enough

to have been born a snake?

And Then The Synapses Misfired and Things No Longer Make Sense

swarms of sleeping larvae are writhing in this fleshcase, gently reminding that existence continues, even if apparent life does not. sleeping forever, after all, is hardly a punishment. gather up the twilight-haze and tie it with an atropa belladonna bouquet, so innocent and explosive in its deadly deception.

lavender poisons the air as lips whisper unheard words to a far-off ear no one can see. but not even the most powerful of ear trumpets, as far as it will burrow, can amplify the sound.

the toxic mist moves in like a silent stampede, and, much to the terror of the unknowing masses, brings apathy wherever it goes.

The Human Race of Nesting Dolls

We are hauntingly capable of so many things.

Regeneration, compassion, kindness, love, healing, invention, discovery.

Anger, hatred, murder, apathy, disdain, selfishness, greed, pride.

Constantly grappling over Jekyll and Hyde. Can they co-exist in some twisted form of harmony? Or will anger always try to kidnap happiness, covering its head in a burlap sack? Will hatred always try to deceive and turn compassion, willing it to ignore someone in need?

It is no wonder we spend our lives searching, wandering, looking for some semblance of peace.

We are but a collective, chaotic chorus of screaming demands, each trying to be heard above all the rest, each trying to reign supreme.

His Last(?) Train Ride

the fluorescent yellow combined

with the constant swaying of the tracks

make it difficult to memorize

anything,

let alone decipher each

verticalhorizontaldiagonal line

that comes together to create

something called

"a sentence."

but he's run out of time.

it is his final journey

in this aluminum-and-steel sarcophagus.

success is promising,

failure is threatening.

he doesn't have room

for ambiguity.

words slither out of his lips

like a letterchain-snake,

falling silently to the muddied

ground, whooshing to

nothing more

than a whisper

as they collide.

the voice of a god beckons

through the wordgrater o'erhead.

packed and put away,

he commends himself,

tests himself,

prepares himself,

stands,

and exits.

Healing Takes Time

i am a burnt tongue,

its function pointless and evaporated

at the carelessness of its owner.

press me against something, anything;

i will feel it, know that it is there,

but will be powerless to experience it

the way that i should;

be patient.

i am waiting for the day

when my dead and damaged cells

will have all but shed and disappeared

and i will know what it is like

to be complete again.

Symbiosis of the Homo Sapien

someday,

when science allows it,

i will peel my skin

from my bones,

and my freed cage

will wander

from body to body,

zipping up a

different

fleshoodie

every single day

just to say,

after it has found its

way back to its

original casing,

"i've been a hundred

different

people from a hundred

walks of life,

of all different sizes

and all shades of human.

there were women

and men

and some children,

when i could manage

to fit.

they were black,

they were white,

they were asian,

they were hispanic,

they were mutts.

they had congestive heart failure,

they had diabetes,

they had cancer,

they had restless leg syndrome.

they hated

and they loved

and they mourned.

but now that i've been

a hundred

different

people from a hundred

walks of life,

i've come to realize:

we

are all

the same."

Hauntings Are Not Reserved For the Dead

i am fairly

certain

that if you were to

r e a c h(stretch,stretch)

out for me,

your hands would pass

right thro(in and out)ugh

me;

i am an illusion.

i am the lingering remnants

of who and what i

used to be.

i have faded and weathered,

like the photograph that

sits on your

cob-webbed window

sill,

bleached by the

sun's

too-powerful strike,

my corners curled

and my edges worn,

my structure broken

and my chemicals diluted.

i am

nothing more than

some vague silhouette of

a girl

who once existed

in a once-beautiful world.

i am nothing

more

than

a ghost.

Jaws Theme

to stay afloat

in a sea so intent

on letting(demanding that)you drown

is just asking for trouble

for which no one is really

prepared(as if they can).

but kick harder,

won't you?

paddle stronger,

won't you?

tread the water.

stay afloat.

stay alive.

Fly Away Home

to feel at

home

in a place so far from

the dwelling, officially termed,

to feel a

love

in a place overflowing with

strangers and unfamiliar faces,

to feel that

peace

in a place as tumultuous

as anywhere to Timbuktu,

to feel a

"something"

that has no name but

is stronger than the Himalayas,

to feel a

loss

at having once found it all,

hoping one's feet will somehow

wander back to those

cobblestone paths

and overgrown mews,

to the "ou" instead of "o" and "s" instead of "z,"

to the dreaded prawn-flavored-everythings,

to the seed that has found its landing,

knowing that if it only had the chance,

with perhaps a bit of sun and

a bit of water,

it could blossom into

something

spectacular.

I Am No David

an empty page

is more intimidating

than Goliath,

as it beckons you

to fill it, to satisfy it,

and when your pen

has run out of ink,

and your mind has

run out of thoughts,

what choice do you have

but to

surrender?

At the End of the World, You Are Alone With Yourself

if ever you are

worried

that life is something tempor(ary)al,

and that tightness in the chest

begins to settle in

when you stop to

think

of all you have to do,

rest assured that you have

had a gift(well spent)

that so many

will have abused and exploited,

who will pause before

their last heartbeat

and wonder why they had

wasted time as if it were air(though

even that is a rarity these days).

let the panic fade away

as the warmth seeps

into your veins,

sliding like lava through

your limbs,

knowing that you

were

loved.

I Would Live Underwater if I Could Only Manage to Survive

my body is like the sea,

undulating,

changing,

controlled by an invisible force that i must obey,

lest i cease to exist all together.

my soul is like the tide,

an oscillation between high and low,

between calm and tumultuous,

between black and blue,

constantly morphing

and constantly adapting.

my heart is like the gull,

perched upon these galloping waves.

it can sink and dive and break this

sometimes halcyon surface,

but it prefers to stay afloat,

letting the rises and falls lull it to security.

my life is like the oceans of this earth,

each body a different chapter,

each world a new beginning.

common threads run amongst them all,

as all things are connected, you see,

yet they are different all the same.

which chapter am i in?

which will i end up in next?

paddle, paddle,

and see what surprises await.

Catch Up

I have returned from Missouri, with daily entries still written, posted below. The trip was wonderful and the flights, both to and from, were quick and painless (I passed out while still on the runway).

11 august 2010

if i lived here,

i'd be home by now.

how we fight and kill

and slaughter to defend our

tiny, infinitesimal section of this

hardened rock.

from a mile above,

it all seems pretty folly,

realizing that what we own

is not what we are,

and all of these things

are anything

but

permanent.

but we continue to kill

and we continue to fight,

unwilling to let go of one of the

only things that makes us

feel like we're bigger than

mortal and more residual

than gods.

but we'll cease to exist.

we'll leave it all behind,

with only the dwindling and idling

memories we have spent a lifetime

creating

remaining.

---------------------------------------------------------

11 august 2010 (post 2)

home is a state of mind,

not a place.

i realized this long ago,

feeling at home in hotel rooms

that smelled faintly of smoke

from twenty years prior,

because my family was with me.

the section of the living room

rug where i always fell asleep

felt more like home than

my bed.

this place doesn't feel like home.

because it is missing you.

and, my darling,

you are light

and you are warmth.

you are home.

---------------------------------------------------------

12 august 2010

i wonder how it'd feel to

be suspended - in time, in space,

in life.

there are moments when

it is more than enticing,

when there wouldn't even be

an ounce of hesitation if i

would but be offered this chance.

then a part of me realizes

the downfall to this idea,

to this state of existence.

peace would be abundant,

i'm sure of it,

but so would apathy.

after all, how can one feel

anything when there is

no reason to feel?

never moving forward

and never moving back.

never moving anywhere.

purpose would be just a memory,

the kind that always lingers

in the back of the mind,

until it becomes the vague outline

of what once was.

perhaps this state of suspension

would be no good after all.

perhaps we have no choice

but to continue to move and

to continue to breathe and

to continue to die and be born.

always destined for heartache,

always destined for loss and grief,

always destined for love and

joy and celebration,

always destined for something.

---------------------------------------------------------

13 august 2010

every baby will grow up

someday.

everyone on this earth was once

microscopic, tucked away inside the

womb of some woman somewhere,

destined for what seemed an eternity

of captivity and hibernation(for what

could you really know of time?)

then, released into the world,

(hopefully with welcoming arms and

opened hearts)

breathed her first breath

of this newly discovered world.

then came a life summed up in a

series of moments:

the first day of school,

the first crush(that will break her heart;

it is inevitable),

the first failed test,

new schools,

new friends,

the first love(who, most likely, will be

suspiciously similar to that first crush

from so many years ago)

and so on, for what seems like forever,

until each moment becomes a memory,

until each memory becomes a story,

passed on and passed down,

until the cycle starts again.

---------------------------------------------------------

15 august 2010 (scribbled after a dream)

he stands in your front yard or when you least expect him. you shake your head and try to wake yourself because surely, this must be a dream. he tells you there is no point. he's real. he's there to stay, to guide you to all of the happiness that have you been seeking. but you must do what he says, this clairvoyant stranger. you tell him that you were going to see a friend and he politely responds that you are not. he explains that your friend is sleeping, having hurt his back, and you will see him tomorrow. instead, he sends you driving down long highways until you always crash, but manage to stay alive. he sends you to a film festival and tells you to buy a year-long membership (because apparently these things exist and you've got a lot to learn).

in the daylight, he looks old and frail. he carries an oxygen tank and his fine, white hair flutters with the lightest of breezes.

but he is still your sage. you must do as he tells you. he will make you a better person. a happier person. he will bring you to everything you want.

---------------------------------------------------------

16 august 2010

they say that distance

and abs(over-whelming)ence

makes the heart grow fonder.

i suppose that i must be extremely

fond of you(though i

did not need much encouragement

to be begin with).

this foreign bed

becomes vaster and more daunting

than the Sahara,

with even less inhabitants.

how i wander,

how i seek you out,

how every inch of me yearns for you.

but you are nowhere to be found

in this strange land.

you are eons away,

resting your head where mine should be,

curled amidst blankets and pillows

that should be my body.

but, my dear, my heart has grown

fonder(i thought it impossible),

suspending visions and memories of you

to keep it warm and keep it safe.

i do not worry, as i wander in

search of you.

i know i will find your arms again.

i know i will find you.

Hiatus

Hello all (meaning all of you crickets out there reading).

I will be away for the next six days as I travel to the wondrous state of Missouri to visit family and loved ones. I will continue writing every day, though I won't be doing it on the computer. I'll be doing it the old fashioned way, scribbling my thoughts down in a notebook or, more likely, Moleskine. I will post them all up with their respective dates when I return to New York!

In the meantime, watch this adorably spastic French Bull Dog puppy. And some cool stop animation.

My Head is a Balloon, Floating Overhead

They protest and rampage. They tear down trees and shear off the branches, and ram shaven logs into the walls. Claws, sharp as glass, scratch and rip their way through ivory and ebony keratin. Or, at least, they try. When one attempt fails, they find another. When that attempt fails, the increase the explosives and double the gun powder.

Please, quiet down. Have a rest, won't you? Perhaps you'd care for a tall glass of water.

You'll soon be spilled onto this screen through the not-so-clever workings of ten of my best men. They will work tirelessly to release you from this prison.

Don't worry.

You will have your freedom.

With My Head Against a Pillow, I Concoct the Strangest of Worlds

I had a dream the other night where I was in a strange house, though it seemed vaguely familiar, like there were pieces of it that made me think it was mine. All along this long, long hallway, there were ladders - and no ceilings. In order to progress down this hallway, and there was only one route, you had to climb up each ladder and then climb back down the other side. As I was waiting in line to do this, I was wondering what was taking people so long once they reached the top. After all, dream minutes are very important. Who knew how long it would be before I would wake up and leave this strange world?

My turn finally came. A well-placed foot was planted on each rung, up and up and up, until I reached the top of what seemed to be an impossibly tall ladder. Once I climbed the summit and went to maneuver over to the other side to begin my descent, I realized why people had stopped. Up at the top, you were faced with a wooden wall - like the bare panelling of a house without that insulation that looks suspiciously like cotton candy. Speckled on this wall were pictures - pictures of you, pictures of your loved ones, pictures of your friends.

Memories that you forgotten you had, buried deep in the lost abysses of your brain; memories that were your favorites from when you were small; memories that didn't seem much like memories at all at the time - you know, those moments when you are simply living your life, another day-to-day miracle, where nothing spectacular happens, but damn it, it's special because you're still breathing; memories of moments that had not happened yet. All of these things, captured in photographs of all sizes, some in black and white and some in color. And every time a new person climbed the ladder, these photos would change to reflect their memories.

I went to reach for one of these photographs, but it began to melt as soon as my skin made contact. Maybe I had gained some acidic skin? - after all, this was a dream. Anything was possible. But I realized that I hadn't undergone some nifty transformation and wouldn't become the next superhero (Venom Girl would have been my name, by the way).

I realized that I couldn't take these memories with me because I had to let them go.

This hallway would always be here, always here to house and protect the memories I had collected over time, but that's all they were. They were to stay, glued to this wall, for reminiscing purposes only. I couldn't live in them. I couldn't pretend I was at that moment in time again. They had happened, and what wonderful memories they were. But that's all they were: memories.

After this realization, I sadly climbed my way back down this first ladder, then began to wait in line for the next. After a few moments of thinking, however, I realized that I didn't need to see all these photographs again. I needed to get out of this hallway and into my life. I somehow wriggled my way between the walls of the hallway and these abnormally tall ladders and to the front door, after the last ladder. It was beautiful outside.

I awoke as I opened the door. I had returned back to my life, hoping to see a few added photographs the next time I visited that strange, strange house.