Rest in Peace

Buried in the backyard

a place I’ll never see

Yet I still wonder 

if it will be

a flower

or a weed

that grows 

from all my warmth

and all of your coldness

Shadow Beasts

 I feel the pulse beneath my skin,  

The night's alive, the fever setting in,  

Through the darkness, I hear her voice,  

I can't resist, I've got no choice.  

Moonlight ignites the flame inside,  

No place to run, nowhere to hide,  

Feel the rush, the hunger grows,  

I'll lose control, let the wildness show.  

Chorus

I am the shadow, I am the beast,  

Craving the darkness, seeking release,  

Feel my blood racing, feel my breath rise,  

Tonight I come alive,  

Tonight I come alive.  

In your eyes, I see the spark,  

A dance of light in the sea of dark,  

We collide like thunder and rain,  

A savage love, what beautiful pain.  

I taste the night on the tip of your tongue,  

A whispered secret, a breathless run,  

We’ll tear apart this sleepy town,  

The flames burning it all down.  

Chorus

I am the shadow, I am the beast,  

Craving the darkness, seeking release,  

Feel my blood racing, feel my breath rise,  

Tonight you come alive,  

Tonight you come alive.  

Bridge

Underneath the skin, there’s this hunger,  

An ancient truth that pulls us under,  

Through the mist, I feel your heat,  

Two wild things lost on the city street.  

Outro(?)

The moon is our guide, the night is our friend,  

We'll dance till dawn, until the end,  

Feel the heartbeat, feel the need,  

Embrace the wild, become the seed.  

Chorus

I am the shadow, I am the beast,  

Craving the darkness, craving release,  

Feel my blood racing, feel my breath rise,  

Tonight we come alive,  

Tonight we come alive.

I was listening to one of the songs that completely infected my brain several years ago, and caused me to dream and write about several different things that do not exist in this world. I listen to that song today and this is what came out. 🖤 

The Possibilities are Endless

In shadows, something whispers—

a voice I almost know, calling from

a place beyond the edge of thought.

It’s a flicker, a fragile thread

pulling me into the dark,

where love might be waiting

or absolutely nothing at all.

A step forward feels like

a step into the abyss.

What if those bright stars above

are cold and indifferent?

What if their light

leads only to an endless night?

I blindly reach out,

the future is a delicious stranger—

a warm hand that might grasp mine

or slip away like a morning mist.

To love, or to retreat

to safer yet lonely ground—

I’m left to wonder

if it’s courage or madness

that beats in my chest.

The Virtual Losses

I want more than digital ghosts,

than pixels shaped into words, 

encrypted secret zeros and ones, 

fading with the screen's light.

I want more than messages, 

random thoughts sent through wires, 

however sweet and delicious, 

arriving without a soft caress.

I want your laughter in the air, 

not just letters spelling it out, 

your scent in my lungs, 

our bodies close, your voice real.

I want more than words. 

I want you, here, now.

Just Breathe

 As a child I was alone - a lot. Even while sitting in a room of people I was still all by myself. Growing up being screamed at and beaten and told you are all these impossibly horrible things really takes it’s toll on a person. Especially when you were the only person being treated this way. It caused distrust and fear. It left no place to hide from that unwavering spotlight of relentless hate and furious anger. 

As an adult, finally, I see that I’m still that child; that little human that had no power to change the world they struggled to survive in. There was no one to help us escape it. No superhero to save the day, week, or year. This was life and the only way to survive it was to hide and stay small and quiet until the giants fell asleep. 

So here I am, at my wits end, again, and I push everyone out. I close off and distrust the most genuinely kind gestures. I am mentally running through dimly lit steel corridors with no doors and stifled screams sliding down the walls. This mode sneaks in so naturally like a venomous snake in a warm sleeping bag at night. I am alone again. 

I am in the safest hell I can create. 

The lights are out. 

We hold our breath. 

We close our eyes. 

We fill our lungs and we pray for light. 

We fill our lungs and we pray for light. 

I once wrestled a giraffe to the ground with my bare hands.

Though it is well past time that I should be thinking, much less typing or constructing sentences, my brain is awake. One better, my brain is always awake, only this time that dusty dark hallway that has been closed for construction is now open. At least that is what that posted sign has said for the last, goddamn, forever ago now. UNDER CONSTRUCTION. Signed by The Management.

Until today. True, that is me in there shutting down hallways and reconstructing entire wings of my mind. My subconscious does it without permit or permission. Until today I have had no access to that hallway. You know, the one listed as The-Complicated-And-Creative-Thought-Processes-That-You-Have-No-Business-Knowing-About. That mile long title is now barely visible through the glossy black, spray painted word "DANGEROUS". Some of the newer folks might not have even known that this hallway existed. I started asking around after finding too many leaks in the basement. Didn't you assume that there was a place dedicated to this type of thing somewhere? Those leaks never happened when the hallway was open, no need, plenty of places for the juices to go. That was the only clue to my remembering this place at all.

A few years ago the leaks stopped but before that this place was completely submerged in fluids. Sticky too. So anyway, I checked the log book down there and sure enough, leaks stopped a few years back and hadn't returned until lately. I signed it myself when the place used to be Seaworld and signed it again when I found the newest wet spots. Whoever signed it when it dried out is beyond me. The signature is complete bullshit. Nothing but sprawling vine looking stuff, all wiggly and colorful. I can't focus on it for more than a moment without getting a dark thundercloud of a headache. And that is all I know.

Since then, I have walked the hallway for, I don't know, 100 feet or so and I get all creeped out and walk back out a little faster than it took me to get down there. It is not about being scared, but I am definitely not comfortable in there. It is hard to explain. And I haven't slept since the last time I was in there. I remember thinking to myself "this is as far as I have ever been" and then I start seeing the most random things from my childhood in my minds eye, as if I were dreaming. Things that make me happy and sad and some things I don't remember at all, but they are really fucked up.

So This Happened.

This is something I wrote a long time ago. I am cheating like a motherfucker and I feel the hard stares. I don't care this time. I am reposting this today not because I am lazy, but because I am looking for some kindling that might stoke my fire. As a writer I have found (mad/insane)inspiration from reading others work that influenced me and I am greatly inspired to write when my life is at its worst points. As silly as it sounds, I am a firm believer in synchronicity and a common consciousness. So I am throwing it out into the collective winds as it was thrown to me originally, in hopes to have it return to my dreams sooner than later. It is a selfish thing but a positive thing too.

C'est la vie.





Somewhere South of Real


by Joe Keller's organic being


Setting: A sometimes jarring yet mostly comfortable train ride. The cabin is pitch black except for the warm golden lights that blur by the windows at random intervals. There are random images of past lives' visions playing on a small television screen that plays more static than the actual television show. These images are all fond memories connected to no particular person.


CHARACTERS

Little Boy
Mommy
Train Conductor
God
The Devil




LITTLE BOY
Mommy, I think I am sick and might need some medical attention.

The train loudspeaker crackles to life, blaring in perfect 8-bit quality, "Elf needs food badly"

MOMMY
I can't afford to take you anywhere. Get a job and make sure it has some good benefits---

TRAIN CONDUCTOR
(Voice Over through train speaker)
Please hide your cell phone and lock your doors. All sharp objects and cooking devices need to be detached from this ride as this train only makes one stop.

Sounds of breaking glass surround the interior car as large household items are tossed out the train's breaking windows. Knives, cords and cleaning supplies are being swept into the air from an unknown shadowy location and are thrust out into the night sky.

MOMMY
The stop you are making is not at the hospital or local jail. Get your life together young man and stop being such a wimp! I raised you to be better than that.

LITTLE BOY
O.K. I think I am doing better anyways. Besides, I have to go to the bathroom and will forget about being sick as soon as I stop staring at this purple screen in front of me.

TRAIN CONDUCTOR
(Voice Over through train speaker)
Next stop Hell. No reboarding passes will be accepted. Please remove all personal baggage from your compartment.
Viewing out the window of the speeding train, little boy looks up and sees Hell; demons are all red-skinned porn stars and the devil is George Lucas. They are all lounging on frothing orange clouds and discussing the war in Iraq over warm martinis. Everyone is beautiful and lavishly, if not scantily, clothed. Someone starts vomiting in the background and the Devil quickly turns off the lights of Hell with a snap of his finger. All is dark again save the few stars in the sky. 


MOMMY
Told you you'd end up there if you kept up your evil and blasphemous ways! Now be a man and face the consequences of your sinful life. I will be looking down from heaven praying for mercy on your charred and ruinous soul. She picks up a leash that is connected to gleaming silver cord pinched in-between the closed train doors.

Little boy looks out from a broken passenger window and sees Heaven below him. It is upside down as if looking into a puddle. God, a chrome-plated robot, blindly fires a large machine gun into the picturesque sky of blue and gold. The angels are Every Underprivileged Person In The World and their undersized dirty t-shirts say so. The angels are each leashed to a single bullet strung through Gods never-ending ammunition supply. When he fires a round, the angel attached violently explodes against an unseen wall somewhere in the distance. Their bloody remains congeal into shiny new bullets after sliding down the invisible wall to heavens ground. Through a speaker hanging askew from Gods mirror-shine mouth you hear broken laughter. The Angels shout praises to God while simultaneously securing their leashes.

LITTLE BOY
I am not even grown yet! I don't even know of a hell. How can I be responsible for my actions when I am just now figuring out what they can cause? I am already damned. Have I no choice in life? If I can do anything I put my mind to, why is my mind limited to only doing so much?

GOD
(Voice Over through train speaker)
Social order buddy, ha ha buzzzzzzzz.


TRAIN CONDUCTOR
The Train Conductor now stands beside open door at the rear of the train car. His speaking voice sounds as if it is still coming from the overhead speaker. Life isn't fair unless you are someone else and someone else you will never be. Now please, tuck and roll.

Little Boy is tossed out into the rushing winds and is carried like a feather into some unknown, invisible path. Lights fade to black while Nine Inch Nails: Head Like A Hole plays its entirety.




Based on SK's reaction to reading this, I felt there was a need to clarify the post. Upon rereading it, I realize I am unable to touch it. It's loosely written in the form of a playscript and it involves a mother and son on a train that travels through the cosmos, to Hell presumably. I was the Personal Home Stenographer on this one so I can't unravel it's mysteries either.

So much for a clarification huh?

Serial Killer

The endorphin rush gets me home with just enough energy to clumsily lock the door behind me and collapse in a heap onto the hard and unforgiving living room floor. The cold tiles are a welcomed contrast to the heat pouring out of my over-worked body. Who is next? I can only wait for an answer. He will eventually crawl out from the darkest corners of my mind, dance on the tip of my tongue and molest my eyelids until I am forced to open them again. Until that time comes I will think of nothing that he is so desperately concerned with. The destruction. The blood. The tears. The laughter. Fuck! I am thinking of the darkest things after all. Or is he? I can never tell these days. He is so good at tricking me into this mindset. This irrevocable pattern. 

I used to like it when I could escape from them all. I would be the one crawling into his darkest hiding places to find that precious, priceless sleep. I didn't want to change the world! Sleep was the hidden treasure I was after and, I suppose, I found it too. That is where we met, him and I. In the world between sleep and those darkest places. I remember the long talks we would have. I thought he was the smartest person I had ever met. Funny too! He was so clever. That was how he eventually made a cozy little home inside my life. We simply spent too much time together. I let him search through the deepest places in my mind, places I had never even traveled to before. 

One Friday night after work I was depressed and thinking of the life I have lived, or not lived, and I wanted to chat with him to clear things in my head. He was the best listener I had ever talked to. It was as if he could read my mind. Every topic of discussion was laid out exactly as I would have wanted it. So I went searching for him. Desperately. I searched for what felt like days. I looked in any place we had hung out. He was no where to be found and the others, well, they were never keen on having conversations with me. I traveled through the that world for days and checked every corner. It was as if he had disappeared completely. I was frustrated and beyond tired. I lost my temper and struck one of the others. They spoke to me then, in fear of what I would do if the silence continued. They explained that he made them promise to never speak to me. He told them that he was leaving their world and I was to take his place. He was the creator and they could only obey his orders. They quietly agreed that I reminded them of him. They told me that I was very similar to the boy they remember in the past. He was young once too. He was a kindhearted person back then they mentioned as they shook their heads in unison. He didn't creep through the shadows talking to himself back in those days. No, he was much like me then. I couldn't take it any longer. The way they would look at me with such hope and admiration. They were only trying to distract me. Just like him! I told them that I would not stay in their world. I had a real life elsewhere that I had to be in. I had a daughter and a family that cared about me. They didn't care about these things. These once quiet and peaceful strangers became enraged and grew to become monstrous and frightening phantoms. They said I could never leave. I would never leave! It was his plan and nothing could stop it. I surprised every one there and myself. Instead of running or fighting them all, I simply slept. 

I slept for so long that he eventually came back to me. He was a changed man. He told me that he was sorry to have tricked me so deftly. He was selfish and naive. He didn't know then what he understood so clearly now; he needed me. He craved the long talks. He was literally dying without me. I felt so relieved to see him. I had slept for so long that my dreams became a reality that was hellishly repetitive. I agreed to his offer wholeheartedly: we simply had to see each other to survive. I would live in my world half the time and then in his world the other half. We would never discuss what happened while we were in each others realms. I was happy again. The others were not happy at all. They tried to plead with me though he would not hear of it. They retreated back to their homes and were silent once again...

This child would one day grow up to fear everything and everyone. Almost. He likes to think in extremes so don't get offended. So not everything and everyone but at least a lot of stuff. It's a problem no one could have foreseen. They assumed the best. How could they have not?

Senru How Dare You!

Sagawa

How could you praise this
Killer and cannibal star
Oh you Japanese


Keanu Part II

Oh you are gorgeous
and so well tanned, Paul Walker
your acting is shit


Oh so Valiant!

You came from Venus
met our President at once
and then disappeared


Oopsie!

Miss Laura Welch (Bush)
first killer then First Lady
stop signs don't apply

Haiku How Dare You

Shades of pale dead flesh
With blood encrusted jewels
Scare me to no end

Even in daylight
I think Those That Must Be Kept
Wake to my nightmares

Dogs can find their homes
From hundreds of miles away.
Werewolves don't need maps

the dog days of summer

Can you conjure up the image of a puppy being taken on a leashed walk for the first time in it's life? A design so foreign to a mind so free. The puppy roots itself into the sidewalk and doesn't budge. Even fifteen pounds of dead weight feels like a hundred when you are the opposing force.

This is my writing. Here is the leash. See it trailing along as I attempt to walk along? Well this puppy is thirty two years old now and he is fucking heavy. This sly dog even plays games with his master; pretending to walk along for a distance before breaking leash and disappearing for months on end. He comes back somber and skinny but leaves nothing to explanation as to where he was or how he feels.

I've never gotten very far with him on these walks except for the few times we were lost in the woods. Those times we were lost and desperate, he ran so far ahead of me that I could barely keep up. This old dog doesn't learn new tricks but he surely learns from his mistakes. These days we cant even get in sight of the woods before he breaks away from me, bites my hand or just plays dead.

If you have any tips on how to get the old stubborn mutt to take walks and eventually run free like he did when he was a pup, feel free to let me know. I am desperate.

this is a rant. or I am so stupid. or I hate everything.

It is very difficult to find a roommate that you get along with. It is even more difficult to find a roommate that you are friends with and can live with harmoniously without the friendship taking advantage of certain situations. Well she is an awesome roommate. The best ever. I couldn't ask for a better person to live with. Consider this the only positive flow of information to be in this particular blog. Consider that a warning.

Fucking neighbors. I am an extremely introverted person as it is and you are only pushing me to upgrading to sociopath status. I have found a growing interest in large quantities of lye, bulk orders of twenty by twenty sheets of waterproof plastics and how to start my very own pig farm. No joke. Simply writing these things online makes me feel uneasy as I truly contemplate their deaths. Those last couple words made me smile.

I feel that over the years my karma has balanced out well enough. I am a good person and feel that my bad times have been paid out in full by me at some point in the past. Obviously this is not true. It is a false statement. It is the exact opposite of truth. In my past lives I can only assume I was Stalin, Genghis Khan, Attila the Hun and the Spice Girls.

Where to start?

Myownbaby

Do I have a style? I have been told that my writing is very "unique" and isn't like other writers. That may possibly be the equivalent of saying a persons newborn baby is "breathtaking". I am glad that I can be somewhat identified as a writer. God knows my art/hand side lacks a name or distinguishable face. I can't honestly tell you what my 3 words would be. I have failed this assignment. My mission is to write without fear or blocks or pride. I don't need to create over the top scenes or white knuckle suspense if it is real to me. I want to grab the reader by the heart (...hand, or hair) and give them the same sense I have felt from reading books all my life. It is so much more than a movie! This is a very personal experience that can't be compared to watching a film and because of that I feel that my writing must reach a person on some sub level, some sort of subconsciousness, that can only be found by leaving my pride at the door. I have always considered my writing to be a part of therapy, for myself and anyone else that can see through the bullshit. Identifiable as a style? I have no clue.

excellent lesson in human behavior

Hello. It's me. It is Sunday, no, actually Monday morning now, and I can't sleep. I am afraid I have gone off the deep end this time. This time... Why does it always happen this way? It is a pattern; something that follows a series of events that always lead to the same place. Predictable. I am looping again again again again. Not sleeping. Living with complete guilt and self hatred for doing the things I didn't think I could live without doing. It's all so necessary for me to experience time and time again. Without the good there is no bad and vice versa. What a precarious balance I live in or die to live outside of. Contradictory you whisper? Yes of course. I've announced my faults. Faults to you, that is. I personally see it as natural human complexity. I'm no ant. You've heard it all before. Redundant much? Yes I am that too. I sometimes find myself saying the same thing three times in a row before I realize I am doing it. People don't seem to notice. They do actually notice but don't act like they do. Thanks for protecting me with dishonesty as I know you meant well. I need to be heard. No. I need to be understood. I need to be understood in the way I comprehend it. If the tone is wrong or I get the wrong reaction then it didnt happen like I wanted so, rinse repeat and refuckingcycle. Insight to a delusional mind. Thank you television of the eighties and nineties. You watched over me well as you could.

Remember when you would see (on a tv show) a person prepare themselves for company? Say the person is alone in their apartment washing dishes and talking themselves through a conversation they need to have later in the day. The door bell rings unexpectedly. The person bolts to the living room and turns on the radio, picking up a paintbrush and setting the scene for the guest. "Come in" Guest walks in never the wiser. "Oh Hi, I was just painting a little. How are you?" And so on and so on. Why the fuck do people do that? I used to do it all the time when I was younger. I can't say I do that now exactly, but it is all about intention and connection. It's all about facades and falsehoods. I did it so people would see the real me; or the intentional me. What a mind fuck.

I find it very important to be understood. I need a person to see the complete scene I have set up for them. It is crucial in my happiness regarding relationships... sometimes even random stranger conversation. When I see a person not 'getting me' enough times I back away. I don't enjoy explaining my words (however excited or empassioned I may act otherwise). I need to be understood for who I am and what my intentions are. Few get it. Few get me. As a disclaimer I will tell you I am okay with that. I do ask for a lot in my good friends. I ask for even more in my lovers. Everyone finds these needs of mine tiring. Everyone needs a break from me. Some times it's temporary and other times it is permanant. Cest La Vie and all that cliche nonsense.

I am trying something new this time. I am going to try and keep my friends without bribery or self destructive habits or negative compromise. I am going to try this new self-sustaining approach and see how many friends I really have when the chips settle. It will be an excellent lesson in human behavior and sociology, or futility. Either way, it won't cost me a liver or lung or paycheck or day in bed. I miss you. I miss being understood. I am going to try and sleep again.

I really thought diorama

this is as pure it comes, or goes depending on what viewpoint you have in this sordid business that is blogs. i hate that word. blog. it is so very unattractive to me. brain > fingers > keyboard > monitor > eyes > brain. i have no idea what i am wanting to say today and that excites me to no end. the fruit is rusting on the vine, the fruit is calling from the trees. i bought a pack of assorted rainbow fine point sharpies today and i cant help but keep them in roygbiv order. i tried in vain to toss them aside but i have returned them to the proper order 5 or 6 times now today. > my coworker knows something is up too but i am surely not talking. not yet. if you want to know just ask. don’t try your schoolyard psychology tactics with me buddy, it won’t work. at best i will take the time to make it even more intriguing and less understanding... if i have the time. at worst i will just ignore you and play the i-dont-speak-english-or-hear-well-or-see-well-game. < so i have all the rainbow and a white and a black paint market(-t+r) too, so where the fuck do they go? i placed black underneath the row of colors and the white on top. it seems to make sense but something about the little set up is wrong. i can feel it in me bones i tell ya. now please keep in mind, this is unfiltered me so step back from the lights please. there can be no judging here. the markers, yes! when i wrote "set up is all wrong" I really thought diorama, which is kind of misplaced with a set of sharpies right? a diorama is essentially a three-dimensional model usually enclosed in a glass showcase of some sort. so why do i place persona’s with my markers? little cute faces? i have 13 ghosts on my desk, all with different faces, all white, all dead. my markers want them so badly. and the red whispers "just a little blood, it will look great". but no, it wont really look that good on a white-sheeted ghost. ghosts don’t bleed. come on. black and white and white and black and that is it. but lo and behold i turn to my right and the little ghosts’ once empty eye socket is full of blood and a little drippy too. fucking red. fucking arrogant marker... sooo not using that one for a week at least. i’m keeping the ruined ghost too, cuz you cant just trash a spirit, but the marker is going to learn who’s boss. black over white and white under black. no. that is backwards. what is it about fridays that wind me up to spring? nothing ever actually happens. i wrote most of this like this:

third thought
first thought >then i took a deep breath and thought of someone pleasant.
second thought

reverberation of scattered memories

"Because memory and sensations are so uncertain, so biased, we always rely on a certain reality - call it an alternate reality - to prove the reality of events. To what extent facts we recognize as such really are as they seem, and to what extent these are facts merely because we label them as such, is an impossible distinction to draw. Therefore, in order to pin down reality as reality, we need another reality to relativize the first. Yet that other reality requires a third reality to serve as its grounding. An endless chain is created within our consciousness, and it is the very maintenance of this chain that produces the sensation that we are actually here, that we ourselves exist. But something can happen to sever that chain, and we are at a loss. What is real? Is reality on this side of the break in the chain? Or over there, on the other side? "

Excerpt from South of the Border, West of the Sun, Haruki Murakami

and this broken chain of mine swings haphazardly yet sometimes strongly enough to create a whiplash or snap effect at the end of the line. This action creates a violent reverberation of scattered memories and (alternate)realities to float off into the void most likely to never be relived again unless through some form of deja vu or subconsciousness. The void is the darkest recesses of my mind: the places where all the monsters thrive. Collectors of every single thing that floats into this realm. Dissemination of truths. Cultivation of fears. Laundering of reality chains. The place where my greatest ambitions and purest talents are bound beneath the floor, stilled and quiet for safe keeping. My reality is a broken chain. My reality is a broken chain. My reality is a broken chain. *snap*

societies consumption

Voice A: Stepping out.

Voice B: Again?

Voice A: Outside the myriad shapes of forms.

Voice B: Why must you be so cryptic? You're not a genius you know.

Voice A: Outside the formed opinions of those that must be kept.

Voice B: But you are an asshole.

Voice A: Aware.

Voice B: Well at least you can grasp that concept.

Voice A: Hardly.

Voice B: And the asshole moniker fits like a glove.

Voice A: It's hardly the point given the situation.

Voice B: What is the situation exactly?

Voice A: Do you disagree? Please, if you do, tell me your thoughts.

Voice B: My thoughts are that you should patiently wait for an answer before answering it your fucking self.

Voice A: Any other angle besides my extremely fixed one would be welcome with open arms.

Voice B: Given your childlike abandoment of having a normal converstation I think I am justified by asking what you what exact angle are you talking about?

Voice A: Armed with the knowledge of what can not be seen.

Voice B: The unseen? What kind response can I give? It is all subjective.

Voice A: By me.

Voice B: Most likely. Whats your objective?

Voice A: Or you?

Voice B: Well if it was my question, then yes, of course.

Voice A: Where was I actually headed as I stepped out outside the box?

Voice B: To a location unbeknownst to me. You love that whole inner-turmoil persona don't you?

Voice A: The box.

Voice B: never heard of the place.

Voice A: There are so many names associated with it and, for prosperities sake, I choose the box.

Voice B: So you still won't tell me where you are headed? Asshole.

Voice A: It portrays a certain hopefulness I require when venturing out and into the World Unknown.

Voice B: Are you going to buy some porn or something?

Voice A: The World Uncertain.

Voice B: Well it does come in a black bag but I am certain about that world. Pervert.

Voice A: I never was one for gambling.

Voice B: That's why we've never been to Vegas?

Voice A: I was headed towards a mass of shapes.

Voice B: Ha! She was that gross huh?

Voice A: Something my periphral vision deemed to be the correct path.

Voice B: I am not one to judge you. We've all broke our mirrors.

Voice A: The path of the righteous man is beset upon all sides with the tyranny of evil men.

Voice B: And ugly bitches.

Voice A: The evil man is your own ego.

Voice B: I am not the one finding a mass of shapes at the local spank emporium.

Voice A: The evil man has a heart and soul.

Voice B: I do when it comes to what you may or may not be bringing home.

Voice A: He had a mother.

Voice B: So you are bringing home a guy?

Voice A: He was a baby at one point in the past.

Voice B: You don't say? I assumed he was born old and worked his way young.

Voice A: You might have loved him.

Voice B: Maybe in my gay past life.

Voice A: He is not an insect in human form.

Voice B: Did I say anthing about gay bugs? Not once.

Voice A: This man is a living breathing human.

Voice B: A gay one maybe.

Voice A: He has been processed and bottled and labeled for societies consumption.

Voice B: Not my consumption. That's your disfunction junction.

Voice A: I guess his brand has expired.

Voice B: I am just going to agree with you. Will that make this easier?

Voice A: No person seems to enjoy his taste these days.

Voice B: That is so disgusting.

Voice A: We serve him to the Gods.

Voice B: He is a rainbow slurpee.

Voice A: They will drink anything.

Voice B: And by anything you mean sperm.

Voice A: And they have been drinking anything since the first knee fell into the earths rich soil.

Voice B: There was open homosexuality in the biblical days.

Voice A: This is the big trade off.

Voice B: One mans butthole is another mans vagina.

Voice A: Sacrifice is no longer required.

Voice B: No it's not required... as long as you don't live in the south.

Voice A: Our Gods are no longer hungry Gods and the celestial plate is full.

Voice B: Big Gay Gods. It all makes sense now!

Voice A: Amusing how the box loses all edges once a person is at an adequate distance.

Voice B: No matter how far from it I get, a box is always a box.

Voice A: The box is now a bubble; a soap bubble if you will.

Voice B: I won't.

Voice A: Full of color and shapes, ever-changing, always manipulating one color into another.

Voice B: So you are going interracial too? A real go-getter you are.

Voice A: It is a complicated yet inane process.

Voice B: Besides all my jokes, I really am interested in this process.

Voice A: It is the boxes technique for survival.

Voice B: Okay. Survival of the fittest?

Voice A: Who is to question that?

Voice B: I am. Specifically when faced with such an obscure question.

Voice A: I accept this truth for whatever it is and move on.

Voice B: Your Truth may be different than mine.

Voice A: My arms swinging in harmonic opposition of my legs.

Voice B: And your brain sits precariously neutral some place inbetween.

Voice A: What a well thought out process of give and take.

Voice B: I see an error in the system.

Voice A: Ebb and flow.

Voice B: Bull and shit.

Voice A: This and that.

Voice B: Completely and retarded.

Voice A: I let my machine wiggle me to the corner street beside the Church that Hitler built.

Voice B: Today I heard some one say that Hitler was a good man.

Voice A: Oppression saves lives.

Voice B: It didn't save his own.

Voice A: Control promotes well being.

Voice B: My being well denotes a certain lack of it.

Voice A: It is all perspective.

Voice B: It's definitely all in the way you look at it.





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This was an accidental experiment created to try and find a true source of original dialogue. Something purely ethereal and not premeditated. It's in the roughest form but I think I already like the basic formula. Scanner Darklys emphasis on the left and right hemisphere of the brain working seperate of each other is why (in complete and amused retrospect) I wrote this out the way I did. I started as I normally would start writing: no topics in mind. Nothing exiting ahead of the next letter being typed. Real Time Writing is what I call it, or RTW.

Voice A's portion of the dialogue was the first bit I wrote out entirely. I didnt know at the time that I would be including another voice to the recipe. When I ran out of Voice A monolouge I instantly started answering with Voice B, keeping a careful reminder not to read ahead of the present dialogue presented to that character. I didn't edit a single word either. I thought this was fairly important needing a constant as well as variable (no matter how one sided it still came across). For Voice B and myself it was the first time we had ever had this conversation. I know it comes across as strained and confusing mostly. I also had this feeling while talking with Voice A. I plan to perfect this exercise of mine and hopefully gain a better knowledge of where I am heading. Next time I might step it up and include actions with my dialogue.

If you have actually gotten this far then I must say Thanks for reading. It was hard enough for me to not quit half way through. Please don't hate me for the consistant inconsistancies but there is no filter in my head. I is me is Jbee. Now I feel bad about putting you through this. I am going to give you a little something I told myself I wouldn't. It might ruin it for you but hey, it's not like you will ever (ever ever) read this again. Love ya bitches.



Stepping out. Outside the myriad shapes of forms. Outside the formed opinions of those that must be kept. Aware. Hardly. It's hardly the point given the situation. Do you disagree? Please, if you do, tell me your thoughts. Any other angle besides my extremely fixed one would be welcome with open arms. Armed with the knowledge of what can not be seen. By me. Or you? Where was I actually headed as I stepped out outside the box? The box. There are so many names associated with it and, for prosperities sake, I choose the box. It portrays a certain hopefulness I require when venturing out and into the World Unknown. The World Uncertain. I never was one for gambling. I was headed towards a mass of shapes. Something my periphral vision deemed to be the correct path. The path of the righteous man is beset upon all sides with the tyranny of evil men. The evil man is your own ego. The evil man has a heart and soul. He had a mother. He was a baby at one point in the past. You might have loved him. He is not an insect in human form. This man is a living breathing human. He has been processed and bottled and labeled for societies consumption. I guess his brand has expired. No person seems to enjoy his taste these days. We serve him to the Gods. They will drink anything. And they have been drinking anything since the first knee fell into the earths rich soil. This is the big trade off. Sacrifice is no longer required. Our Gods are no longer hungry Gods and the celestial plate is full. Amusing how the box loses all edges once a person is at an adequate distance. The box is now a bubble; a soap bubble if you will. Full of color and shapes, ever-changing, always manipulating one color into another. It is a complicated yet inane process. It is the boxes technique for survival. Who is to question that? I accept this truth for whatever it is and move on. My arms swinging in harmonic opposition of my legs. What a well thought out process of give and take. Ebb and flow. This and that. I let my machine wiggle me to the corner street beside the Church that Hitler built. Oppression saves lives. Control promotes well being. It is all perspective.