old poem rehash

face it
fake it
fuck it
i've ceased to care.
reality no longer appeals.
bring back those effervescent days
of silky grey abandonment that leads to the most pleasurable of dreams.
coming undone can be a blessing
to those wound too tightly.
becoming redone is the buddha's curse
and the jester's nightcap.

pReview

There are some writers out there that actually have a firm grasp of the english language. Then, there are those rare few who not only have a grasp, but are gently stroking to the beat of humanity's collective unconsiousness.

Squirting its way into a cranium near you.

Go stick your thumb in a pie

I awoke today to a strange rendition of a song called "nursery rhyme bully blues" which accounted the solipsistic machinations of the evil goldy locks who had visited various other nursery rhymes and stolen the limelight from the original characters.
Oh, the pleasure of life with children. Sesame street is such a strange and convoluted place. Please tell me they are on some sort of drugs, otherwise life just isn't worth living.

Tom

I want.... I need..
Shit, I have no fucking idea. I feel as though I need out of this life, and at the same time I can't truly get into it.
I've been riding this wave for so long.
The wave was a great motivator, life was always flowing before it. Everything was easy, the options were all there right in front of me, and all of them were downhill. But now...
Now I've slipped backwards over the top of this wave. Everything is uphill now. Slippery, sliding and unattainable. My view has been blocked by the terrain ahead of me. Losing sight of shore can be quite frightening you know.
Saltwater is stinging my eyes as the wind blows me ever backward. And so I drift, giving up, uncaring to expend the energy to fight.
Waiting, for something new to happen.
Or the next wave.

The journalist

It has been a hard week to get through. More death and destruction than I usually care to deal with. Monday went smoothly, but then I came in Tuesday to a murder-suicide of a 21-year-old mother and her four-year-old son.
Later that day a 62 year old woman was either on too much of her medication or had forgotten to take it. She wandered on to the train tracks downtown and noticed the train about a second before it hit her.
I hate hearing about young kids dieing. What exactly is a mother going through that she could shoot her four year old in the head? We found out that she was in some kind of custody battle with her ex, but still. I just don't understand how people can get so caught up in themselves that they can't see how crazy they are being.
Then later they found a body of a 20 something guy who had been beaten to death in his living room. Looks like a drug deal gone bad.
I got so burned out from these types of days in the big city. That's why I moved out here to BFE, to get away from all the child rapes and senseless death. But you know what? Its all just part of human nature. Wherever you go there are freaks and crazies. You are never safe from the wacko's, no matter what you do.

The boy

"I just don't know what you were thinking Tom," his stepmother said.
The boy tried to sink further into the hallway seat. She had directed him to sit the moment he had walked through the door. Five minutes late from his after school appointment, and it didn't matter that it was with his councilor.
"Yes mom, I'm sorry," the boy whispered while staring angrily at his dirty brown shoes.
"How many times have I said that you need to be punctual? People just don't respect you if you aren't punctual. Do you think the president comes late to his meetings?"
"No Sal..."
"Of course he doesn't. Now I want you to go put your things in your room and wash your hands before dinner. Your father should have it ready in a minute."
The boy waited for her to go down the hall before getting up from his seat. He made a face at her back as she turned the corner into the kitchen where his father could be heard making various clanking and rattling noises at the stove.
It wasn't that dad was such a bad guy. If only he would stand up for himself on occasion. Mother had always said that he was a big pushover. His stepmother only proved it.
Hal did a quick walk to his bedroom where he dropped his backpack into a chair.
He tossed himself backwards onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, angry at his fate. Why did his mom have to leave him with his dad? He knew that she was going to come back and get him like she promised. But it had better be soon, he couldn't take this woman for much longer.
"Hal, where the heck are you?" his father called from the kitchen.
"Coming dad," Hal hopped out of bed and went to the bathroom to wash up.
On his way to the kitchen table he walked through the living room to see if they had noticed that the gun had been moved.
His father was somewhat of an amateur gun collector and had many of the old things placed in almost random spots throughout the house. Hal's plan involved getting one of the working guns out of a showcase, but before he removed it he wanted to see how much attention his parents paid them. He had started by making minute changes to the positioning of the pistol. When that didn't draw comment, he went so far as to move it one peg down on the display.
It was still there. Nobody had noticed it for six days.