Monday, January 28, 2008

The Journal of Sterling Blackfoot

My name's Sterling Blackfoot.

I'd be asking for help, but this note's sure as hell not bringing it.

My life is on the line here and I don't think I've got much time. I've got to get to the Canadian border before someone at the Institute finds out I'm gone. If I'm lucky, they haven't yet. And if even luckier, the border will stop these people from pursuing. That might be optimistic of me.

I've eluded them so far, but this is a harsh winter so my only chance was to snowshoe it away. Couldn't risk being heard by anyone back at the complex, they know there's too much at risk to let me escape. Riskier than freezing to death.

And imagine how lucky I felt when I passed a frozen human corpse, partially eaten, just to find the poor bastard's overturned snowmobile. Even luckier, it was still working, and I was far enough away to start it without fear of being heard. I didn't have time to think about who he was, only enough to grab the sawed-off shotgun from nearby and a couple of shells from his pockets.

If that corpse was involuntarily confined at the Institute, he was a better man than me. All I managed to escape with was a few cans of beans.

He was better, but hopefully I'm luckier than him.

It's damn cold out here, nature's against me as much as the rest of the world. My beard is covered in ice and my clothes are barely warm enough. If you want the sort of place that nobody can escape from alive, this is the right part of town to build it in.

One can of beans down. I think my fire's warmed me enough, and hopefully it hasn't given away my position. I'm not rested enough, but I'm gonna have to bite the bullet on that one because there's no rest for anyone out here, not in my shoes.

Now that I've calmed down a bit, I can see I'm bleeding, even left a nice trail for my hungry animal friends.

I crashed the snowmobile trying to avoid a fallen tree in the path, that's when it must've happened; I've been walking ever since and the adrenaline's only just wearing off. As much as it will, maybe. No wonder the wolves are closer now, listen to those hungry buggers, just waiting for me to tire myself out. I bet they could wait for days, but I bet they won't wait a minute to tear into me.

Fresh meat, that's what every living thing is out here. Delivered right to their doorstep.

Well they won't get my carcass without a fight. Over my dead body, as they say...

I digress, that's a sign my body's giving up, spending all this time writing by my little fire. It feels good, even though it may mean my death. I'm under no delusion that writing a note will help anyone to uncover any wrongdoing. They know it's a lot easier to get in here and investigate them come spring, so they save themselves for these almost dayless winters. No, anything I say in this note will be purely anecdotal and there won't be a trace of evidence for the atrocities being committed out here in these woods.

I'm not going to describe everything, but if anyone outside of the so-called Juneau Institute finds this, you need to get it to someone who can do something. They have to be stopped because the experiments they're doing here, the arsenal they're amassing - it's bad. For everyone. For the sake of all human life, these people must be stopped.

Give this message to Jonas Filbert in Denver: it's worse than we thought and we have to act now.

If someone from the Institute is reading this: your time is coming. I spit on you monsters and everything you stand for. We are strong and will stop you.

But what happens to the Institute is the least of my problems right now. I'm more concerned about how many shots I've got left. Two loaded barrels, three extra shells.

And the wolves howling not too far away. I think it's been a harsh winter because I've known they were tracking me for some time. They're hungry and they're making no secret of it: I'm being hunted. I wish there was more daylight because they're better at hunting in darkness than I am. I'm an investigator, not a mountain man. For now, only the snow's dim glow is going to help me defend myself.

I'm gonna need more ammo.

I'm lucky I got this far, but there's no way in hell am I gonna be done in by a pack of hungry wolves. I've stood up to a clandestine organization with billions of dollars of funding, I think I can take some common predators.

I probably have a minute before they come, got to get ready. We'll see who eats who for dinner.

It's w

[found last Spring near the Alaska-]

Sunday, January 27, 2008

The Bromeliad

The bromeliad had been a nice gift, but it was fast becoming an eyesore.

Through no fault of its own, Ishtar had come to see it as a reminder of its giver. He—it’s not important exactly who he is or what he did. He was gone, now.

And this tropical plant on her kitchen table was a burden, but one she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of. Nobody could take care of it better, there was no place it would look better, and there was no place she would rather have it – except out of her heart.

If it weren’t for him…but then, what had happened was in the past. For a time it had been good. It was always like that—were these pangs of loneliness and periods of recovery really worth it?

Ishtar ordinarily thought so, but from within one of those times, it looked different. Then again, those times were starting to feel ordinary, weren’t they?

It wasn’t just his fault, it was hers too. She'd trusted him when she shouldn't have. She’d made a new life in a new place, and he was the only thing she’d had. Unlike the life she’d left behind, she hadn’t established friendships in this city, and it was a hard place to meet people, sometimes.

At least, the sort of people that interested her.

She could have sworn that this place was an unending suburb, there was so little going on at night, there seemed to be so few people who weren’t in families—or at least who hadn’t been at some point. The list went on.

The generation and lifestyle Ishtar identified with was nowhere to be seen.

It wasn’t just that, though. This place didn’t feel like home, her family was not there, not even any relatives.

Really, all she had was the bromeliad now, which of course brought her back to him. Ironic that the last living companion she had, plant though it was, was a result of being left by the only person she had had.

Obviously she wasn’t over that relationship yet, but she had barely understood when it had ended. What a frustrating man, just dropping out of contact like that; she’d been worried sick.

And once she’d learned in a roundabout way what was going on, she had been fuming mad.

But rage had passed to sadness, a realization that she, Ishtar, was alone. No one was going to come rescue her; there wasn’t even anyone to hug her.

Really there had never been any rescues in her life, nor had she ever fantasized about them, but she was starting to feel like she might need one. It wasn’t a white knight she was looking for – the trouble was simply that she’d never been this depressed for this long.

Her life had already had its share of sorrow, considering her relative youth, but this last stint of heartache was more…complicated. How could someone even know what they should feel about you if you just dropped off the face of the earth?

It was like this spiky plant, whose colors gradually ranged from deep green spiny pineapple leaves at the base to bright red spiny pineapple leaves that passed for petals. Several tongues of flame leapt mildly out the end. That had been the development of that relationship – it was impossible to say where the flower itself ended and the stalk began. And when it finally became clear, she had been a leaping tongue of flame and anything but mild, but her anger had come too late to mean anything.

It was an amazing plant, Ishtar thought, and she remembered when she’d first seen one. It was in a conservatory back home, and several of them had been placed in one area, each unique in its colors.

One had been bright fuschia, ranging to an earthy green at its base. Another had been much like the one on her round kitchen table, but larger. The others had impressed her less, but were interesting in their own rights.

There had also been similarly odd plants that held water nearby, also bromeliads, also pineapple like, but with a core that seemed to be rotted out, replaced with the sort of watery hole that would have bred mosquitoes.

Ishtar had shuddered at the sight of it, and did so again as she remembered.

She’d only been thinking about the pretty ones.

She had just come back to her apartment and looked over to see the plant there, dimly illuminated by the room’s sole fluorescent light, pale in the night.

The window was dark and the lights of a house across the street could be seen, but nothing else.

To Ishtar, it would have been nice if she could see as much in her future as she could out the kitchen window. Bills were looming on the table and her phone sat there, inert, no calls for days. And the keys beside the bromeliad reminded her that her car might have been dying.

There was always hope, she told herself, hard though it was to see. She wasn’t really buying that.

Her heart wasn’t even where she was. It was trying to be off somewhere else, somewhen else. And try as it might to find a better time to be in, it couldn’t quite get there.

Seeking some companionship from an unmoving plant, Ishtar touched its leaves and said to it, “At least you’re not going anywhere.” She forced herself to smile – supposedly it could help, if you were feeling down.

Maybe it helped a little…but the plant was a living thing, and she was happy to have that, at least.

Well, tomorrow was coming too soon already; the trouble of working late to make up for lost cash.

Ishtar decided to have a shower – no time for a bath – and then go to sleep, the only place where she could forget about the world, at least for a short, forgotten time.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

My way to there to finally find

I roved down random streets
like metaphors for my mind.
Seattle city twisted hills left
my poor self forlorn and blind.

Lost too far for giving up
- not competent to accomplish it -
I looked to elders and to others,
but none could guide me in

[Jan. 6, 2008]

Response to scam email

On Jan 26, 2008 11:11 PM, Vivian Salem wrote:
FROM:MISS vivian salem

Dear Sir,

l am introducing myself,l am Miss vivian salem,the
only Daughter of late Chief and Mrs Patrick salem,

I wish to request for your assistance in a financial
transaction.I saw your profile also it was well

noted to me that you can help that was why i contacted
you and I want to invest in Manufacturing and

real estate management in your country.

I have Fourteen million Five houndred thousand united
states dollars.USD($8,500,000) to invest in your

country, and I will require your assistance in
investing this funds profitable venture in your

country.l will compensate you with 10% for your
efforts in assisting me.
Now permit me to ask these few questions:-

1. Can I completely trust you?
2. Promise not to sit on my money when reaches your

Consider this and get back to me immediately through
this my private box for further explanation and

conversation on how we will proceed. Awaiting your
immediate response. Thanks and God bless.

Best Regards
vivian salem

I promise that if you deal with me you will be swindled so fast and so many times you won't know where to start looking for your money.

But it's clear that there is no money. You naturally will ask for some information from me, or request that I come to your country, and jump through a dozen hoops so that you can either take my money or hold me for ransom.

This email address exists in very few publicly accessible locations, which is a clear indicator that you are simply using mined data or addresses otherwise acquired for the sake of spamming them with ridiculous scams like your own.

Further, we are a Religion of sorts. We have shunned all wealth except what we can steal. We feel that this is in line with the teachings of our great prophet, who taught us that we must hasten the end of humanity.

We believe that deceit, duplicity and mutual distrust are the ways of the future, and that a more murderous society would be beneficial to all. There are simply too many living humans to consider life to be worth anything. Quite the opposite: human lives are worth only the destruction they will cause. ending them is doing all a favor, ourselves and our mother earth.

I hope you're terrified; we are the new dark dawn rising over this planet.

We approve of what you are attempting, and feel it in the true spirit of Destruction. However, we cannot abide the stupidity of your methods, effective though it may be once received by enough suckers. We just hate spam mails that much.

May you die soon, or else find the path to murder, if you have not already.

amp my ears till they bleed

Rock music destroys my eardrums, and I'm never wise enough for earplugs, until it's too late.

The ringing lasts for days, and soon it may last some stretch of my lifetime, like my father before me. I already hear a slight buzz in silence.

The most brutal of the bands on my hearing is called Red Museum, last night they sent their nonstop stream of sound, often noisy, no breaks and no relief. Great to see in person. Local kids, friends of my brother.

They're harsher than his band, Rome DeLeon, but I wanted their sound to continue to fill my ears, to blow my mind out. Guitar and stored pedal sounds assailed but pleased me, a slightly masochistic pleasure for the deaf-to-be.

And I'll go back for more. More rocking, more pounding out more amazing sounds.

Now I know what they can do.

Heard Through House

a rain, noisy
it pitters, patters
it rings and clacks and thuds
splashes all over

Glimpsed Past Windowshades

seen through a crack
hung from a leaf
how long till this drop
does as its name says
and splatters aground?

Found Poetry (from Jan, 2007)

To my love:
you have no body, save that which serves for me to stand upon
you cannot be possessed, yet you possess everything
you have no direction, just as the sun's rays have no single one
you cannot be known in your fullness, unless the knower be you
you have no single mind
you cannot be stopped,

Thursday, January 24, 2008

A Realization of Stock

Fred Meyer spoke to me similarly to the radio station, though it had already misled me.

It spoke to me via soup, much of which is vegetable, but little of which is vegetarian.

It seemed impossible to find a quick meal in a can that involved no death, or at least as little as feasible.

Instead what do I find: an attractive woman, her man nearby and somehow making me feel like I was noticing her, even at the times I wasn’t.

I found other canned goods and retreated to the bulk foods, only to be disappointed again, destined to create my own soup.

A sad try at friendliness produced pointless optimism from the cashier as I left, disappointed.

[see its older brother, too]

A Misanthrope's Litany

in some states life seems unimportant
we've all got blood on our hands
there are thousands of millions of us
exploitation of others is pervasive
we will not prevent our running rampant
our end will come in a matter of time
so eat, drink be merry every night
it works only to hasten your demise
and I can't wait to see you look surprised
when you meet your maker by your own hand

Sitting on my own island, looking at another

Maybe it's the moon, maybe it's something about her smile,
But speaking to her then leaving, I do only with reluctance.
Though learning more might merely disappoint me, still,
I want to know more of this woman whose name's an island.
So I go nowhere - daring not to return to the restaurant -
Waiting for nothing to happen, broken by this indecision,
Because waiting till next week, I sense, would be too long
And something else also tells me that I'm not so strong

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Insomniatic Realizations

As I lie in wait for sleep, KING FM tells me: you are not our target demographic.

It does so with an advertisement for a play pregnant with married humor.

As I seek sleep, I realize classical radio blocks out my neighbors as well as my chances of sleep.

It’s there so my house mates’ private activities may remain private: a weirdo like me does not need to hear private things, I can’t tune them out.

So I sit up and write this down, flashlight chained to pen clipped to notepad – at the ready.

I’m making yoghurt, and this may prove more fatal still to a night of rest, stillborn.

A Declaration of Suffering

I suffer.

My sense of this is no greater than anyone else’s, but not all suffer as I do.

Most miserably, it tires me, and sleep offers scarce little relief. Falling asleep is challenging, and the more tired I become – the more taxed my body – the harder it becomes to relax or to sleep. Yet it makes sleep therefore ever more desirable. It’s like something Shakespeare once said about drink and sex – in Macbeth, I think: that drunkenness increases desire, but makes the act impossible.

There is no solution to this and there seems to be no relief, but I think it should be known. I have no true release. The nearest I have comes when I have let go all hope, then I find that I can let go of things, gradually I drift off into the comfortable amnesia, if not always the physical comfort, of sleep. Otherwise it’s briefest moments of bliss, which expire as soon as they’ve been realized. Orgasms of good feelings, in a sense, most of which are bittersweet experiences.

My pain is a burden which none can share and which cannot be set down. Perhaps drugs could solve the symptoms, but I so despise chemical dependency of any sort that I would almost rather not take even my heart medicines, although this might someday affect my health.

Despite this dismal picture, my life is better than it had been for some time. Much more of my life used to feel this way – stressful and anxiety ridden – even in the simplest of its aspects.

The misanthropy and disdain for the world I sometimes feel is an unsurprising consequence of the suffering. Sometimes it seems impossible to avoid, and the focus needed to block out such feelings eludes me. The energy often eludes me, and I would not wish to simply forget ill feelings, as doing so has had destructive results in the past, and I’ve finally recovered from it after several years of self-improvement.

Another thing that troubles me sometimes is the agony of explanation. Why I have a cane, what muscular dystrophy is, in addition to many other things, related and unrelated. Perhaps this is one of the most isolating factors in my life. I tire of having to tell people such things, so I become less interested in meeting new people.

And communication in a relationship? The gulf between myself and another person can appear wide indeed. Such a thing as a relationship is riddled with gaps in shared experience, a problem I have experienced extensively due to other reasons – to the point that I felt dishonest, twofaced, disgusting – on top of still having been pervaded by a sort of loneliness despite not having been alone, because what was inside of my mind was so different from how it appeared on the outside. Certainly the worst is behind me and this need not be the case in the future – and I hope it never will be again – but it urges me to caution. And I still find myself having an entirely different experience, because things others take for granted I take for suffering.

Perhaps this is why I sometimes take things too seriously; in fact it may explain much about me. It’s a story from my childhood: work harder to keep up with others, get left behind, left only with a pain that that is not grasped by those who do not share my experience. Until fairly recently this sometimes affected me any time I was literally left behind by others walking faster.

This is my life. I have my reasons, my ups and downs, my strengths and faults. What I lack is an out. It drives me a bit mad, even. Most of what I have described is based upon my physical suffering, the sensation of bodily misery to which I am subjected.

Other, lesser things shadow my every move. Every time I do or don’t do something on account of a disease which is fundamentally a part of me, every time I plan or don’t plan or do something because of this condition, I lose a little indefinable something. I have to admit that I am not a whole and healthy person, no matter what else I might do in spite of my disability.

Perhaps it’s pride that I lose, which perhaps makes it fortunate that I don’t have much of it – it has been eroded and I no longer consider it important. What is pride to someone who is struggling ridiculously to stand up after an apparently causeless fall?

For the most part I can brush all of this off, but not always – which is to say, I can’t stand it forever. Something must give, but what first? My mind or my body?

Written at midnight after two hours in bed failing to sleep. It is perhaps a bit more tripe than I'd like to be posting, but I considered not posting it at all.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

The barrenness of the bald sky was opened to me, just as the barrenness of the highlands opened to it. Destitution begets destitution. Even so, the baldness of my head was shown the barrenness of the cold air, which passed mercilessly across my scalp. Nevertheless, an obscuring mass had been removed from my eyes even as masses of hair were shorn from my head.

The truth is rarely warm and inviting, to start.

The change I had made to my head was accidental to begin with, but as so often happens, I realize more and more that it should be this way. Even if it's unusual or uncomfortable, or mistaken for a side effect of cancer therapy.

None of this matters, the world is vibrations passing, all will pass.

Doubly so because hair grows back.

So looks from passing traffic phased me not at all as a sunsetting vista of snowy misty mountains surrounded the plateau upon which I had parked, I knew that the barren construction site soon-to-be shopping center was unlike my head, barren and open, naked to the sky, though they both were.

One was a blight, the other was freedom.

Yet hate comes to mind for many: racial hatred and skinned heads go together, despite the many skinheads who are not racist, and the many bald men who are not skinheads.

And this look is a look of death, to others. Chemical, radiation poisoning - a bare skull, shape clearly visible, every bump and contour. It's death's grinning head, or close enough. Have a nice day, they they think it will be one of my last? Do they think I will soon become an emaciated set of fleshless bones?

Perhaps they should. It may as well be so, as far as we know.

This is also a monastic look, and practicing yoga made it feel more so. It was even a meditation with less distraction than usual. This is the image I keep in my mind when I see myself in the many mirrors.

Ultimately, the look of a bare skull is new; something that was hidden is revealed for what it truly is, its adornment removed.

This too will pass, but for me and for now, it will be a symbol.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

Only in dreams

Who she was and why she sucked me off, I couldn’t say.

She was not overwhelmingly beautiful, but still attractive, her skin tattooed in places with images of something I forgot upon waking. The tattoos made her beautiful with their vibrant colors, and patterns I cannot recall. Turquoise, I can’t say what else they were.

Lying with her, I recall only her wetness, which was sticky against my leg as I moved myself about. All of this was pre-coital, or would have been.

When my turn to return her favor came, I tasted her briefly, and was about to do more for her when I noticed that there was something wrong. She was warty. I noticed this only from between her legs – down there she looked suddenly diseased and I was taken aback.

In that instant nothing was any longer pre-coital; whatever she had done for me was nullified by these small, grotesque growths, scattered as they were where they were.

It was almost a panic response in my dream, I suddenly had to delicately decline to engage in any further activities with this woman, else I would be disgusted by every second of intimate contact. I was already disgusted to be where I was and see what I saw. Something was wrong with her and I suddenly regretted my choice – if any choice had even occurred.

I’m unsure how this all ended, I’m unsure what else happened. But it left a strange taste in my mouth (in a sense), not to mention a seed of worry. All erotic potential was bled from this initially erotic dream. Perhaps that’s just what I do in life.

How I learned to love the apocalypse

If life is a sea, then the end must be the shore.

The end of us all is an under-appreciated theme, much like death itself. It makes cameos in this civilization: it's a side effect of exploding films and it's in zombie movies and some albums of music which I love. It's in crazy Scandinavian metal bands and in some crazy people scattered here and there, but everyone else is being steadily eaten by the insane desire of immortality.

They talk about it with comforting metaphors and reassure themselves that death is not the end. They cry when they lose loved ones and mourn each death, they pretend as if no end can come, they wear their terror on their sleeves and cover themselves in darkness when one leaves.

Else they buld cults to immortality, they find cosmic loopholes to jump through to save themslves. The righteous are taken up to heaven, the brave in battle are spirited away to valhalla, an underworld is the dwelling place of the dead.

It is necessary that death occur, and no superstition may stay its hand.

The scope is greater at The End; if each death is needed, then great numbers of the living demand many deaths. Going on forever gets you nowhere. A glorious snuffing out is the only way.

I could speak of balance, but the balance is tipped in favor of massive all-consuming hordes spreading like a cancer. Mere balance would not cease the ravaging growth, it would delay it only a little.

But an End, a mass-destruction, would return some normalcy, some sanity, by way of struggling chaos. Primitive conditions would teach this population what it means to Worship, for they would worship huddled together in the mud, bowing to figures in hopes of bringing the rain, dancing in hopes of finding bounty rather than starvation at the end of a harvest.

The fat and happy peoples of this world will understand death and they will appreciate it, or else it will break their minds. It will break them, and they will continue to prattle on about the sorrows of those left behind by the dying, they will continue to dream of heavens for their friends and fantasize about hells for their enemies, and they will rebuild what they now have until, once again, they bring about their fall, a Ragnarök to cleanse and begin the world anew.


I have discovered transmutation, and no, you may not share in this secret.

Greedy reaching grasping things, my fingers have not yet found all its depths. But elsewhere the change is clear; when it happens, the elixir's effect instant and blissful.

Friday, January 18, 2008

direct flights up and over

whoever you are, you're over the atlantic right now.
I want you to know that gravity has a firm hold on you
so you'll be coming back down, sometime.
probably in a few hours.
but be prepared for what you'll find: a different place.
you knew that already, but I tell you just in case
you had doubted, in your heart, somewhere,
that the flight would be ending...

meat your murder

turning onto a rangeland road, one car width between two fences, it was soon blocked by an enormous cow. It was sitting and it was not going to budge. I was passenger side, dad was driving. The cow ignored us, the thing looked like a great pig and responded to no horn or sound.

so he rammed it with the car. nothing happened for a second then it looked frightened. It roused and tried to back up slowly, and by then it had been rammed a few more times, clearly hurting the great beast.

It tried backing up, slowly, but it raged at us in anger and was not entirely cooperative against its attackers.

So he shot it. Earlier it had been a man selling general goods from a trailer, like a white trash gypsy 7-11, but now my dad easily wielded it, finding it in the car.

I didn't notice that until later.

He fired and tore its neck open. I looked into the creature, seeing arteries and its heart, and mostly empty space besides. Insides, no entrails, It had empty space, and I remarked at how it reminded me of a person...I had seen the same happen, the shell torn and the nearly hollow insides gaping out at me.

Blood spurted and some splattered on me, but as dad shot the aorta or jugular open - maybe both - a stream of it hot to the side. I was the only one who flinched.

I thought of it as a vegan would; slaughtering of beef, these people weren't doing much different from the usual, horrendous as their murderous impatience was. It was a girl I know in the car too, I thought, and she had earlier quoted a song I didn't know, but my dad had known it.

I don't believe it exists.

We thought this bovine was dying; how this would help us get around it was not on our minds, it was clearly a solution to kill it.

It was deflating before our eyes and had stopped trying to back away, so my dad pulled toward it, done with his uncharacteristically jubilant kill.

But he got too close and the car was no longer there to protect me. The cow grabbed me and it was already a bloated hag, shape changing into something grotesque and desperately clinging to me, murderous rage in her eyes, puffed, bloated skin hanging flabbily from its frame.

It was very much alive now, and it had me in its grasp.

I'm not sure if I escaped, but it was terrifying and it seemed my dad was powerless to help me. I don't know if he was out of bullets, or if he had a clear shot, or if his bullets were ineffective, but he couldn't help.

If I got out of this one, it was on my own.

Thursday, January 17, 2008


machine cums in my hand many times a day
a mechanical phallus held in the hand,
pressed firmly, it ejects its self-sterilizing fluids
but not pressed hard enough, it blindly-dumbly does nothing

by washing oneself in its seminal mass,
one gains health, or so they tell,
and in your mind, through repetition,
if you swallow all you'll find it's not so bad.

Tanz des Todes

I met my end at a gun barrel's. It introduced me to my maker, but the next day I awoke, live as a bird.

A man I didn't recognize did it to me, and I wonder who he was. He was someone, maybe he was me, and maybe he was right to try and kill me. What is a dream suicide? An alter-ego murdering the other, not really suicide at all.

Med-induced madness, I had also seen a bus crash due to an explosion in the city, in Seattle's own U-district.

This is all ages ago, but a week of violent dreams will shake anyone, even me in my then-insecure anxiety-ridden existence. Probably I just pretended not to shake, that was the way of life in those days. Hold the whole of it in till it breaks, don't show a sign of weakness till my will breaks.

It was because of meds. Side effects are the devils best friend, because it must be enjoyable to watch the shifting of the scales of suffering. One symptom down, the other up; it's a see-saw of sickness.

But why a medication that affects blood pressure should induce nightmares is utterly beyond me.

This dream was the closest thing I've had to a nightmare, and it was hardly the wake-up-sweating-shaking sort of experience that I've seen on screens. Those are performances anyway, but some people must do that in dreams.

It was years ago so it's sliding out of consciousness. Funny how some dreams stick like real memories, while others vanish into the space between waking and sleeping--in the blink of an eye.

Considering only the vivid things I can remember, my life consists of: dinosaurs, insects, flying around my hometown, a lightning storm, a crowd of high school kids almost as awkward as Iwas, rowing across a raging windy lake at noon, being shot and exploded, then some craziness about Physics and Europe and then a quick death behind a desk. In a cube.

Cubicles: the new mausoleums. You know you're dead already when you wind up in one of those, for our species as it should be died ancient ages ago.

Yet was never truly born--we are a miscarriage. I think we're in the throes of dying, a post-natal abortion of evolution. Watch us rise and rise and rise, not to a peak but to a breaking point.

A creature designed for small scales has exceeded its limits.

Maybe that's what my alter ego knew, that it had to end.

We couldn't keep going upward forever, so it had to be culled like a herd's sick and weak. He's more enlightened then I, perhaps, because he is a pragmatic predator, he knows what must be done and has no qualms about doing it.

Or perhaps he's just vicious and lacking in humanity; assuming I'm the human half. Like a sci-fi bizarro universe, we naively assume we're the good ones.

So much like this aspect of me, perhaps what is needed is some real change in this world: what we've seen for some time now is business as usual, but with fewer constraints. We're free of death much more than before, we've slipped one hand out of the manacles.

Is something trying to stop us? Mother earth, or maybe the consequences of our actions or still some other extraneous force? Something internal?

I hope if some aspect of us has the wisdom of my murdering alter-ego, it is more successful than he.

I've heard nothing from him in years now, and I expect he made the only move he could. We danced the waltz of self-destruction, and I dance on out of it before it became a fatal tango del muerto. Tanz des Todes.

I lived through his attempt on our lives, in my delusion his shots ineffective, for I knew I could not die. If homo sapiens survives himself, may all who encounter us be so lucky.

Monday, January 14, 2008

a dramatic variety of disconnect

Like a pillar of clouds
distantly beacons,
I'll smoke signal
like a burning house
till you come runnin'.

A smogging car
visible on your horizon
(we'll burn oil
each midnight,
till we run cummin');

first comes the ragin',
then comes the ruin,
then comes the
aftermath of broken
hearts a-spewin'.

I'll try so it don't come
to that, do my part and all,
but the prospect's
slim, so come on now,
let's jump into our fall

in fact the sequel to 'a singular excellence' but in spirit not at all the same

Saturday, January 12, 2008

isquoh isquoh

I pranced upon the hilltops
I danced upon the precipice
I leaned my head against the clouds
I bathed in falling morning-mist

I watched as starlights opened
I looked into a sky most clear
I caught its eyes exposed to us
I found them looking right down here