Saturday, December 31, 2011

Dream Journal: 31 Dec 2011

First dream:
At a hotel with various schoolmates and school chaperones, for out-of-state school function, except there was a mix of people from different schools (BO from BHS, KS from WCC, SS from CJS, are those that I remember).

SS asked for a prayer session for some reason, and everyone was asked to attend, but I skipped out. I went to the room I was sharing with BO and three other guys and started reading five books that BO had lent to me.

The first book was by a different author than the other four but referred to them, and used a currency called an Enwa.

Second dream:
I was living in an apt complex right next to CB's (BHS) old house.

Third dream:
GD (WCC) and I were fooling around at work, and got told off for it, so he started passing notes like Seiai and I did in high school English.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Dream Journal: 28 Dec 2011

Went shopping for orange.

Found some.

Not An Easy Choice

put me on a pedestal
to watch you melt from head to toe,
lift me above everything
to show the world my glow.

put me on a tower-top
to watch over your country wide,
lift your arms in salute,
and march your feet in time.

put me atop the clouds,
to draw travelers from afar.
worship while the sun does shine,
then compare to distant stars.

or put me at your side,
and love me every day.
let me live with mortality,
and you'll never rue the day.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Dream Journal: 27 Dec 2011

There was a serial bomber who hadn't been caught, but he left tips at all the locations that were going to get hit. Hats, with college initials, most of them from BFUN.

My dad (who looked suspiciously like Nathan Fillion) was out golfing with two buddies (who looked suspiciously like the two sidekicks from Castle) were golfing in the woods, when they started seeing hats with the initials BFUN. They followed the trail and came out in our backyard (I hadn't moved out yet). There were dozens of hats in a large tree in our backyard, and the bomber rarely left more that five or so at a target. I knew the bomb was going to be big.

(Gained control here)

The buddies vanished, and Dad and I ran inside. I started packing, and told Dad "I told you earlier that some friends and I were going hiking and camping out in Ogle. They're getting started a few days early, so I'm going to join them early," meanwhile scribbling on a piece of paper that he should go to my grandparents' and his parents-in-law and to get in touch with Mom (who was out shopping).

I started packing necessities and grabbed my external hard drive, but left the rest of my computer behind, and made sure Dad saw what I was doing. After I had everything packed, I called the local non-emergency police number, and told them "I think we're having some problems with our gas line, but I don't want to stay in the house and dig for the number." When they asked if I knew who our supplier was, I said "BF something." They thanked me and said they'd send someone over.

I drove to Hoshi's house, and picked her up (she lived in the same subdivision) and told her to tell her folks the same reason I was using. She packed a few bags, threw them in my car, and I drove to another friend in-town, further west. (Seiai, who used to live closer, had already moved away.)

I hopped on his wifi, and start sending out messages to other local friends, asking them to trust my gut instinct and get out of town for a few days. My screen started twitching and misbehaving, and I popped out the battery (one of the fastest ways to turn it off).

Kyle--the friends whose house we were at--was freaked out what I just did to my laptop.

I told him my computer scans itself every time it boots, and if something doesn't look right, like a virus, it wipes itself and loads factory defaults.

"What about your data?"

"It's not stored locally. This, my friend, is the future in cloud computing: the CR48."

He was amazed that I had one (didn't say anything but I could see it). I turned my computer back on, and as I signed back on, I woke up.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Dream Journal: 20 Dec 2011

Dreaming I was hired and on my first day shift at Waldenbooks on my birthday, and the staff is celebrating it even though I told them not to.

The store has a wetbar.

I took off my badge, laid down on a bench inside the store, and started dreaming.

Woke, no memory of the dream inside a dream.

Friday, December 16, 2011

Dream Journal: 16 Dec 2011

I became a student of an older tutor in college. He was a collector of strange artifacts, and he taught me that those artifacts did more than have historical value or sit on a shelf and look nice.

The first that he showed me was a ring that made the wearer invisible, and he gave it to me while I helped him hunt down more artifacts. The ring was steel with two angled edges and a split between the two, instead of being simply rounded. This ring he had found in his younger days, but now he was getting too old to hunt down the others.

The second he showed me was a blade that could cut through anything.

I was not the only of his students, but I was the first, the most dedicated, and the most trustworthy. He let me hold onto the useful artifacts between jobs.

I was a loner and the second student was jealous of my sucess and special treatment.

One day, I was walking in a large outdoor mall with the sword strapped to my back and the ring around the hilt so no one could see it. I also wore a pairr of sunglasses that allowed me to hear the surface thoughts of people around me, and I'd practiced with them long enough to not be overwhelmed and to sift through them.

He attacked me, and wrestled the sword from my grasp, but not before I was able to slip on the ring. I ran into a service hallway, and threw open the door at the other end, but instead of running out, I climbed up to the steel i-beams holding the ceiling and hung there. He didn't fall for my trick, and I avoided his attacks by listening to his thoughts, but I knew he was going to catch me eventually.

I took off the glasses and taped them to the top of the i-beam where nobody would find them, and then slipped an artifact of my own creation into my mouth. I swung my body, so that when I hit the floor, I'd be under a different i-beam.

The artifact I made was a ring carved by hand out of wood, and made me appear dead. I clenched my teeth around it, and when he reached down, he felt no breath or pulse. He carried me out back and transmuted a hole through the asphalt and left me there, still wearing the invisibility ring.

I wasn't afraid.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Dream Journal: 12 Dec 2011

I'm reading a book while lying in bed about a group of people called the shoshendi. There is a powerful mad magician on the loose and he is attacking cities and houses randomly in the desert region.

A small house alone on the beach where an artist lives comes up with the idea to put up a large billboard between his house and the approach of the man that shows nothing but bare desert.

The magician comes, and seeing nothing but bare beach, leaves without doing anything.

The artist tells the council of a city, and he recommends that they "deestroy" their city, such that it already looks abandoned and ruined. The council votes, and by a small margin, the decision passes.

A woman and a man are out of the city several miles, and they cannot see it. He is flirting with her, trying to convince her to act more femine and needy, when she senses something wrong with the city.

He tries to stop her but she beats him, throws him to the ground, climbs on her horse and rides towards the city. She sees the madman approaching the city in ruin slowly, confusedly. The wall is fallen, gate hanging off its hinges, and still smoking.

I hear an alarm and wake.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Dance-Class Homework

"Alright, I've been working on this one for time, and I must admit, something about it didn't feel completely right. I enjoyed the concept of basing a dance off a video online, and I made sure that Mr. Basell was fine with a video that was actually dancing, though he had his misgivings, especially with the etheral nature of my choice video.

"But something... happened. I don't really understand it. I felt something etheral. Something or someone that wanted to dance with me. I don't know if it will work here, but I'd still like to give it a try."

Mr. Basell nodded in understanding, and knew my ability to perform wouldn't be terribly hampered if it didn't work.

I hadn't brought a CD with the music, but instead had an A/V cord that I plugged into the dance class's stereo and my cell phone. The video was downloaded into my phone, and those close to the stage could barely make out the screen.

It went black, and the words "Though Of You" faded in, and then out again. I laid on the stage, closed my eyes, and as the music started, I lost myself to the movement.

I woke up, and wished that I was dead
And that aching in my head,
I lay motionless in bed.
I thought of you, and where you've gone...

There she was. I could see her shining, dancing brightly beside me, and I felt dim by comparison.

And the world spins madly on.

I reach out for her tentatively, and felt her reaching back for me. A tingle rushed up my spine and down my arm.

And everything that asked that I'd do
Like make the world brand new,
And take the time for you
I just got lost, and stepped right through the door
And the world spins madly on.

I fell to the floor in awe. She was perfect for me, and I for her, and yet we were so far out of each other's reach.

And I let the day go by
And I always say goodbye

She jumped, and I caught her, just as I promised I always would, whenever she felt herself falling.

I watched the stars from my windowsill
The whole world is moving and I'm standing still.

My eyes were still closed to the class, I have no idea what they saw, but I know they were standing still, and I was the only thing in the room moving. We danced as I'd always dreamt we would, someday.

I woke up and wished that I was dead,
And that aching in my head
I lay motionless in bed.

She faded, dimming here, as she had each time, but I was not worried.

And night is here, the day is gone,
And the world spins madly on.

There she was, brighter than ever, wearing wings of light that I'd always dreamed she'd had.

I thought of you, and where you'd gone
And the world spins madly on.

I chased after her, but I never had her grace. She flew without needing wings, danced without needing life, touched me without corporeality.

And the world spins madly on.
She outshone me, and I could never seem to measure up to her ideal.

And the world spins madly on...
I felt myself fading.

And on...
She grew heavier in my arms, more solid, more real. I squeezed her tightly, breathing in the grape smell of her hair.

And on.
I walked off the stage, away from her, and when I opened my eyes, the world was gone.


And on...

"Who are you?"

The girl on the stage stared at her hands as if she hadn't seen them before.

Mr. Basell rushed on stage and grabbed her shoulders. "Who are you?" he repeated, "and where did John go?"

And on...

"John? John was here, holding me... I felt like I'd finally come home. He... oh no." She fell to her knees and wept.

And on.

Italicized text from The Wheepies' "World Spins Madly On." Dance inspired by "Thought of You," animated by Ryan Woodward. Inspired by a dream from 8 Dec 2011.

Friday, December 9, 2011

Lunchtime at 1B

"Okay, so what would you like for lunch?"

"What's the menu?"

"Well, I can make teriyaki chicken, parmesean chicken, and my new favorite, lime chicken."

"Can you make anything that doesn't have chicken in it?"

"Well, sure."

"Like what?"


Friday, December 2, 2011

Hey You

Hey you! Yeah, you, the person who's reading this even though I've sworn you out of my life and refuse to talk to you. I know you've been stalking me and my accounts, and treating friends we have in common like shit because they hang out with me. I know you'd like to think that you had the sort of power over your friends that would get them to boycott me, but you don't. And don't try to deny it either: just because we're not talking doesn't mean I don't have ways of keeping tabs on you and your petty hissyfits.

Oh, and by the way, I've unblocked you from my accounts, but not so that we can get in contact again. No, it's to taunt you. You're a bitch and idiot and I don't want to be anything more than enemies, though you really don't register enough care to even fit in that category. You're like a child who's spotted the chocolates on the top shelf of the pantry, but I bolted down all the chairs so you can't move them to reach them.

The great part of this is: the only way you can keep me from succeeding in this endeavor is to move on and ignore anything I do or say to or with any of your friends. In which case, I still win.

So it's a lose-lose situation for you. Which is it going to be?

Oh, and I have it on good authority that a few people who know you would be willing to screw around with whomever you're currently involved with just to spite you. I told them I'd get back with you just to do it.

Monday, November 21, 2011

4:49 AM

The banging on my door woke me immediately, though I wasn't certain it was my door being banged on. I stumbled out of bed, checked the lightly glowing digital clock above my headboard, and navigated my messy floor to my front door. There were two gentlemen in officers' uniforms that I could see through the peep-hole.

I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open to the limit of the chain. "How can I help you, officers?"

"We have some things that might be yours."

"Alright, just a moment, let me get my glasses." I closed the door softly, retreated to my bed where my glasses lay, and returned to the front door, unhooking the chain and pulling the door wide. I saw what one of the officers was holding, and remembered verbally. "Two notebooks, a charger, and a paycheck stub."

"That's right. That's how we found this address. May we see some ID just to confirm?"

"Sure. Just a moment." I backed away from the door, leaving it open, as they stood holding open my screen door and letting my precious warmth leak out.

"May we come in?"

"I'd rather not, it's a bit messy," I said, loud enough to be heard from the other side of the room.

"A bit messy?" I heard them chuckle as they leaned over the threshold unnecessarily and shined their flashlights in, undoubtably spotting the past week's supply of apple juice jugs lying empty on the floor.

I returned, holding the bundle that I keep in my pocket during the day for easy access: work ID, credit card, library card, medical insurance card, and my driver's license, wrapped by spare hair-ties. I separated my license from the middle of the bundle.

"Why are your hands shaking?"

I paused in my breath before answering, and decided to give the simplest and shortest reason, even though it was neither completely true, nor completely false. "It's genetic." I handed over my ID.

They nodded at my answer and checked the card extra carefully, before affirming my identity and handing it back to me, followed closely by the pile of belongings that was formerly resting on the back of my car. "Have a good night."

"Thank you gentlemen." I closed and re-bolted my door, before returning to bed.

Never A Hope

I'm standing all alone,
and waiting to go last.
The day's been long in coming,
the hour quick and fast,

but it's late in the day,
and I've kept you waiting long;
dinner's on the way
and your attention ain't so strong.

You never had a hope for me,
you barely knew my name,
you just saw me as fodder
for your silly game.

I'm just a little too little,
and just a little too late,
until I saw your dinner,
you only saw your plate.

But when I drew my string,
lifted my heart to make my play,
I heard the music meant for me,
and knew this was my day.

You gave your pig a poke,
ignoring the apple in its jaw;
the orb was the net
that would capture your awe.

You never had a hope for me,
you barely knew my name,
but when I pinned your dinner to the wall,
things could never be the same.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011


I can't let you touch me when I dance,
or you might actually see
whether I'm really here or not...

worse yet,
I might.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Friday, August 19, 2011


my overheating cell
soothes the pain in my
arthritic fingers
while I fight to release
the aching words
from the prison of my mind.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

I'm Not Afraid of Drowning

I saw a fire go by overhead tonight.
it didn't flash like a plane
it was too large for a satellite

it drifted overhead soundlessly,
over Main St and 31
like a bonfire in flight.

Everybody's out tonight,
but they don't see hawks,
they don't see nature.

they're all stuck
in their own little worlds,

afraid they'd drown in the sky
if they looked up.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

When The Walls Stop Screaming

For anyone else, the stairs would have creaked with every step, but for me, all I could hear was the pounding of my heart as I challenged every last riser to do its worst. Nary a squeak or a groan.

I could hear voices above me, but no sound of movement, and I hadn't expected any. I continued climbing, my very un-special self in very un-special shoes, silently but casually.

This was a test, but not unlike every other test I put myself through, every day of the invisible life that I lived. I was a man that blended into the backdrop, and had been through trials and watched other go through trials that made me ever the more grateful for my innate ability to make people forget that I was there.

This set of stairs, however, was very different. This set of stairs was designed to announce every visitor, except those that knew the sweet spots to step. I did not know them, but climbed them anyway. I didn't touch the handrail, which would have been too obvious of a trick: it was clearly not fastened well and probably would fall if I put any weight at all on it. Neither did I touch the banister. Instead, with one hand in my pocket holding my keys still and the other stroking the wall very gently, if for no other reason than reassurance, I climbed up the stairwell and into the landing at the top.

I kept a straight face, and didn't even let myself cheer inside that I had done it. At the top of the stairs, I stopped, leaned lightly against the wall, and watched the meeting pass in the room before me. No-one noticed me.

The heaviest portion of my presence was my gaze, and eventually, someone looked up and saw me. Their double-take was all the compliment I needed, and all the invitation. I took a step forward and the rest of the room caught my movement in the corner of their eyes, turned, and followed my movement toward their meeting table with only their eyes, should their necks or chairs creak with any movement.

The gentleman who had spotted me gestured to an empty chair at the end of the table, but I politely and wordlessly declined. Instead, I pulled up a piece of floor and lowered myself down carefully.

He nodded, pleased with my choice, and the meeting resumed before me.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Liars (Mature)

Mature Content

Aasiya held Diaab's hand as they walked to the fenced-in desolation that used to be their school's playground.

"The survey man was at our house yesterday."

Aasiya held her breath, fearing what would come next.

"There was the party member with his suitcase and two heavy men. I recognized the party member, he usually smiles at me in the street but he wasn't smiling yesterday. Mother ushered me outside while they spoke with Father."

She let out some of it, grateful so far.

"Mother told me not to tell the men that I'm gay if they asked."

"You're not gay, sweetheart." She stroked his hair as they sat on a makeshift bench in one corner of the razed playground. "You like me remember?"

He pushed her hand away. "I can't keep pretending!"

"Hush." She planted a finger on his lips, and then followed it by her own lips. "You can't tell them that you're gay."

"But why not?"

"You saw those two heavies, didn't you?"

"So? They're just there to keep people from lying and attacking the party member."

"No, sweetheart. Do you remember what the President said? 'There are no homosexuals in Iran.' You can't be gay because there aren't any gays here."

"Then what am I?"

"You're mine, sweetie."

"And those men?"

"How many gays do you know, sweetie?"

He shook his head.

"That's because there aren't any. Those two men are to keep people from saying they're gay. That's a lie, because there aren't any gays here. If you claim to be gay, those two men will rape you. Everybody knows gays have sex by sticking their penises in other gays' butts. Those men will do that to you, and your mother, and your father. That's how people lie."

"What about you, Aasiya?"

"What about me, Diaab?"

"You dress like a girl and everything, but--"

"But nothing, silly boy. I'm a girl." She stuck out her tongue at him.

"What about that thing betwe--"

"I told you about that," she said suddenly, with a strange, deep, dangerous tone in her voice, "because I trust you. It's a growth. Cancer. My twin sister had it too and she died. I was lucky. Remember that."

He nodded, frightened even more.

"Stop shaking, sweetie. Nobody's going to hurt you as long as you're with me. Now get over here and kiss your tragic love connection." Her sweet voice was back and he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Am I Falling?

I can hardly tell if I'm falling
since I don't know which way is up.
wrap me in my arms so tight;
solo will I be strong enough?

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Monday, June 27, 2011


I saw what you did tonight:
you walked 'round the other way.
I'm sitting in the same place tonight
and you had to see my face.

I saw what you did earlier,
you saw me sitting here;
I didn't glance earlier
and you still walked so near.

I know you're seeing me,
and I'm not trying to haunt.
this too is my city,
but it's not something I flaunt.

maybe, one of these days,
you'll come say hello;
maybe, some day,
you'll let me know;

maybe, one day,
her friends will stop their hate;
maybe, some day,
but I won't sit here and wait.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Enthusiasm on Parade

You can tell the whores from the easy-access skirts,
The flirts from the tight pants,
And the enthusiastic from their preparedness.

You can tell the casual from their hemp bags,
The straight from girlfriends standing protectively near,
And the enthusiastic from their proud colors.

You can tell the noobs from their parents,
The experienced from their solo-fight,
And the enthusiastic from their friends.

You can tell the innocent from their sandals,
The guilty from their running shoes,
And the enthusiastic from their stylish yet comfortable.

You can tell the liars from their glances,
The confident from their stares,
And the enthusiastic from their kisses.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

The Blood Drive

"Come on, John, you should join us!" Chris strutted down the hallway with a girl on either arm, leading them to the conference room that held the yearly blood drive.

He'd started working mere weeks after the previous year's blood drive, and still didn't fully fit in with his coworkers. As a whole, he never had socialized with his coworkers, and they kept insisting on trying to drag him down to donate with them, but he wouldn't, couldn't go. Only they never let him explain.

Chris came back around to his cubicle, the girls gone, thirty minutes later. "Alright, they left, but the blood drive staff will be back later this week, and you're not getting out of it this time."

"Chris, I told you. I can't donate."

"Oh, stop that. If you want to fit in here better, donating blood will help that. You don't have a condition that prevents you from donating, do you?"

"No, but--"

"Being frightened of needles is nothing to be ashamed of."

"But I'm not--"

"John, stop making excuses. If making excuses is what you do to get out of things, you're not going to be able to keep working here. The leads and supervisors don't put up with excuses if you don't get your work done on time, and donating blood puts you in an even better light."

He tried to turn away, get back to his work which was slowly piling up around him, but Chris grabbed the back of his chair.

"You're not running away. You will donate on Friday, even if we have to drag you down to the conference room. You'll thank us later," he whispered in John's ear, before pulling away and returning to his own desk.


The week passed slowly, even as busy as he was. Everyone else got along together, even the newer staff that joined after John. He knew the material, worked well, the supervisors liked his attitude, but he didn't socialize with coworkers. Work was work and socializing was done in the time left over, which was never very much time.

A shadow stood close behind him, breaking his reverie, but he didn't turn around. It always threw off people when he didn't get nervous with someone looking over his shoulder, even when it could potentially be the president of the company. Warm breath slid over his ear, and he knew who it was.

"Why won't you join us, John?" Katie whispered in his ear.

"Join you what?" He really didn't want to know, and knew what this was probably about anyway, but knew she wanted him to ask.

"Donate blood of course. And afterward, I could show you my special way of getting your strength back."

"I can't."

"You can't? But why not? Wouldn't you like to come back to my place and let me help you out? You work too much, you need to relax. Just join us for a pint." She giggled at her joke.

Katie made for nice eye-candy, but he didn't try for anything. He knew he didn't have a chance, and he didn't mix business and pleasure even if he thought he had one. "No. I'm not going to come."

She sighed, and he could almost hear her pouting. "I'd rather you walked over there and just did it, John, but if Chris ends up dragging you, my offer is null and void."

"I'm not going to donate, and I'm not interested in your offer."

"Keep telling yourself that, and maybe you'll feel better. Maybe."

John could picture her walking away, waiting for him to turn and glance at her, knowing she'd probably wink and toss her hair dramatically. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and then tried to get back to work, but someone else stomped up behind his chair, spun it around, and there was Chris.

"Johnny boy, Johnny boy. We hate to do this, but it's for your own good." Two other guys stood behind him, and John knew them both, but hadn't bothered learning their names; he wasn't very good with names, so there was little sense remembering those of someone he didn't have to interact with regularly.

John stood, and stared them down.

Chris backed off a step. "Whoa there boy, we're not going to hurt you. Just going to escort you down to the nurse's office and make sure you don't get lost."

John scowled, bent to his computer, locking it down, and then strode off toward the blood drive conference room.


In front of the room was a desk, and behind that desk was a nurse who wore a familiar face. "John, is that you? I didn't know you worked here."

John's scowl fell and he smiled back at her. "Almost coming up on a year. Barely missed you guys last year."

"What are you doing here? I mean, obviously you're working but I mean, here?" she gestured to the space in front of her desk.

Chris stepped in front of John. "He's here to donate."

She laughed. "John, you can't donate here."

"I know. I've been trying to tell them, but they won't let me explain."

The nurse came around the desk and put a hand on his shoulder. "Relax, honey, their hearts are in the right place. Boys: John can't donate because he's not eligible yet. He's a regular donor, and has been donating with us since he turned sixteen, every fifty-six days like clockwork. You boys should look up to his example, instead of just donating when the drive comes to your work so you have a reason to sluff off and not get anything done."

Their jaws didn't drop, but from the expressions on their faces, they might as well have. The trio shuffled away, tails between their legs, to get back to the work piling up on their desks.

"How long until we see you next, John?"

"Four weeks. I'm already scheduled."

"Want us to give this place credit for it?"

"Sure, but just this once."

Sunday, June 12, 2011

A Meeting of Bobs

" 'You can come out of your skull for this and this purpose only.' Gods how I get tired of hearing that."

"Stop complaining. You're a bug in the system. Be happy I haven't deleted you yet."

Bob, frustrated with the other two, smacked the blue one on the back of the head and swung out in search of Malcolm.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Close Enough

how close can I draw you
and be close enough to bear?
how close can I hold you
and never be lonely? scared?

how much is left
after they burn you all to dust?
is right beside my heart
ever close enough?

Published in 2011 Complete Collected Poems on Lulu

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Real Trumps Artifical

you will fall where you stand,
tumble heavily to the ground,
I'll help you stand again,
then we'll begin another round.

with working depth perception,
who needs 3-D TV?
we've got a world around us
with plenty for us to see.

with an eye to the real,
who needs to watch the fake?
let's play the games we have,
our shares, our turns, our stakes.

Friday, May 27, 2011

I Call It Like I See It II

Maddy opened the door and frowned when she saw me standing by her friend's side.

"What is he doing here?"

"You said I could bring a guest."

"No, I said you could bring a date."

Clarissa shrugged and grabbed my hand affectionately and possessively. "Same thing. Can we come in?"

I smirked, watching jealousy and disgust swirl across her face. Maddy stepped back, drew the door open wider, and then slammed it in our faces.

I turned to Clarissa. "Told you so."

She laughed, tousled my hair, and we walked back to the car.

Thursday, May 26, 2011


I keep thinking you're the one
until our time is done...
I keep thinking we'll last forever
until we become again-never...
I keeping thinking around the corner,
maybe I won't have to be that loner,
I keeping thinking, around the corner,
you'll soon come.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

I Call It Like I See It

this can't be called cheating
since we're not dating anymore.
this can't be called defying
since we don't talk anymore.

this can't be called tricking
since I laid my cards face up,
this must be called jealousy
since you just can't give it up.

this can't be called maturity
since you refuse to grow up,
this can't be called honesty
since you refuse to own up.

this can't be called love
since it's not filling that hole,
this must be called jealousy
since you refuse to be healed whole.

this can't be called living
since you're stuck in that rut,
this can't be called dying,
since you're still breathing and stuff.

this can't be called fairness
since you never played by any rules,
this must be called jealousy
since you're looking like a fool.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Untitled (Mature)

Mature Content--

Why Bother?

I'm spending my days either working two part-time jobs or passing the time entertaining myself on as little money as possible, putting away as much as I can for that rainy day, though as far as I can tell, it hasn't stopped storming yet.

Juggling two jobs makes having a life outside of work difficult, and I've made my fair share of sacrifices. Everybody has to make a choice each and every day of their lives, work or family? I've consistently chosen work, trying to invest as much as I can in my future, so that when I finally get there, I can afford to have a family.

All that, and for what? I'm trapped in these two jobs, one is seasonal and one is limited to fourteen hours a week. They both test my patience, and every day I ask myself if it's worth it. The fourteen hour-a-week job is threaten to fire me for generally being unlucky, but they should have figured that out already from my resume. How many people do you know who have been laid off three times?

And yet, here I am, still trudging onward. Trudging is exactly the word. I know I'm dragging my heels.

I don't like change. I know some people cherish it, but I just want a full time job, a place of my own, and a set schedule. Apparently, that's too much to ask.

I've been jumping at chances to move on, and they keep coming back and slapping me in the face. I took a chance last fall, applied for and got a job as a greeter at a local Verizon Wireless starting the weekend after Thanksgiving. It was supposed to be forty hours-a-week, but they give me three days and then never contact me again. Two weeks later, I find out they took advantage of the "at will" employment laws of Illinois, which says that they don't even have to tell me I'm fired. Reason: overachieving.

Before that, it was a three month stint at the local Waldenbooks. Not my fault, the store just closed as Borders tried to salvage itself before this spring's bankruptcy filing. It clearly didn't work.

Totes-Isotoner. Twenty-two months. Only store in Chicagoland, and they lost a huge sales base when they closed it down. Lots of unhappy customers. Now a-days, you have to drive to the Wisconsin border or halfway to Springfield, or shop online (and their website is crap).

Book Warehouse. Thirteen months. Book reseller going under due to bad corporate management.

Courteous Canine. Three years. Dog kennel. The only job I've ever quit, and that was to go to work at Book Warehouse.

All those past jobs have gotten me what? Three years of paid community college education and a fucked up resume. The economy is still on the poor side, so people who aren't supersticious won't take their chances with a bad-luck charm.

So why don't I go back to school?

I'm trying, but I don't get on well with classrooms. Regardless, I'm more of a "jack of all trades, master at none" kind of fella, so any marketable skill that an employer might be looking for, I'll be passable at while competing with masters. What do I want to major in? Communication, and not Mass- or Journalism either. That's about as useful as a Bachelor's of Philosophy.

What can I do with myself?

I can hardly stay where I'm at. The stuff I'm writing is only of an appreciable quality if it's published posthumously, and I'm clearly still here. I have a terrible resume, so I'm not apt to get a decent job any time soon, and I'm not good enough at anything worthwhile to choose it as a major. I've also sacrificed any possible social life I might have built when working, so my friends are few and far between. What's left?

I do have one thing: time. Loads of time. Even after keeping up with my more-popular-when-I'm-dead poetry, I still have enough time for one more thing: planning how I want to go out.

Why should I keep looking into the future? By the time I get there, I'll have nothing left to enjoy it with, so I might as well end it early. Sure, I'll hold it off until I've finished most of the stories I've started, but that's the biggest thing holding me back.

If you could choose how you'd go, how would it happen? And don't give me any of that bullshit about pulling a Hugh Hefner and wanting to die in bed at the age of eighty from a heart attack brought on by trying to get an erection. Dying in my sleep? I can't wait that long, and I hope the last thing I see is something other than the inside of my eyelids before jumping off this plane and into the primordial ether.

Though, there is some appeal to going while dreaming, living in the world of my sub-conscious, when my tie to the mortal realm gets severed. Nonetheless, no thanks.

Give me a eastward mountainside cliff, sunrise, and a catalyst. Nothing painful, nothing drawn out, just quick and over with. Let me see the sun peeking over the horizon and take me away before the light burns a hole in my retinas, forcing me to squint and turn away. I don't need anything with me, because I know the most important people will be waiting for me on the other side.

I can take the feather. I've done enough good. I do enough, reaching out to try to help people every single time I put my pen to the page or fingertips to the keys. It's not about trying to win my way into heaven, for which I don't believe in, just trying to do enough.

I'm not perfect enough to do more than enough, but I hope that all that I do comes out to enough, and I can see her smiling at me as I pass by the scales, and Horus goes hungry for another day.

Monday, May 9, 2011

Return a Thousand-fold

you can fill my heart with tears,
and I'll weep for you every day,
but there's more to passion
than being torn apart,
let's fill me with something more...

you can fill my eyes with wonder,
and I'll never stop looking for you,
but there's more to passion
than keeping you in sight,
let's fill me with something more...

you can fill my voice with meaning,
and I'll always know the words to say,

you can give my hands compassion,
so I can make art in every way,

you can fill my mind with inspiration,
so I can capture and keep today.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Too Normal For Me

we're in such a place,
with such a normal face,
I can hardly help but dream.

the eyes of a child,
still young and wild,
know nothing is as it seems.

Following Our Nose

we found us a road,
don't know where it goes,
we'll ride down it today,
just following our nose.

we found us a road
that fades and disappears,
it's still going someplace
but that place isn't here.

we found us a road
that leads to history,
if we're coming back
remains a mystery.

Thursday, April 14, 2011


Hello, my name is Beijing.

I never really liked the name when I was younger, but when I reached high school and then college, it was nice to not just be another Mary Sue. I never understood why my parents chose an exotic-sounding name, they were certainly not exotic people themselves, just a John and Jane Smith is everything but name. I don't remember my last name anymore, I haven't used it in years.

The doctors here want me to write an account of what happened to me, because even those that saw me "arrive" are too trapped in their rational worlds to see the shadows on the wall.


I was born in this universe and was a precocious dreamer. They happened every night as far back as I can remember, and were always very vivid. While I was younger, they were about making friends and having grand ol' adventures; as I grew older, they grew more refined, and though I kept many of my friends, while they were off adventuring I started building a place for myself, a home and a world around it. It was always there, perfect and complete when I came back to it, night after night, and unlike developments in this world, it didn't encroach on the beautiful world around it, just squeezing in as if there had always been room for it, or it had always been there.

In high school, I was first introduced to the concept of lucid dreaming. Before then, I'd wavered between thinking everyone could do it, they just didn't like to talk about it and being alone in my ability. My Intro to Psychology and Intro to Fiction classes changed all that. I followed those studies far beyond the range of the classroom's limited curriculum and went in search of more information both from non-fictional and fictional sources, the latter which seemed the more willing to share details.

I found Carlos Castenada and Don Juan, and thought them limiting and short-sighted; I found Stephen LaBerge and thought him remedial at best; I found Charles deLint and fell in love with his characters, finding their stories inspiring and full of hidden information.

I left school with a Bachelors in Writing and a minor in Psychology, left civilisation itself, and found myself a small place where I could continue to study and reach out to the world that I had fallen in love with. I grew deeper and deeper into my obsession and addiction, and slowly the world that I lived in, this waking world, starting to lose color and sharpness. The world in my dreams grew more tangible, more solid, and more persistent until I didn't want to wake up anymore.


One night, I went to bed, and for the first time, I felt dream paralysis. I had certainly read about it before, as anyone who delves into the world of lucid dreaming does, but had never experienced it before. I opened my eyes, and saw myself laying on my bed, staring up at myself. I tried to move, but I couldn't, just hovering and watching myself. Then, without any willing participation of my own, my body sat up, climbed out of bed, slipped on my shoes, and walked out of my cabin. I followed, still tethered to my body as it walked into the forest and down a path that I had walked so many times before. This time however, it was far more vivid, holding the color and sharpness that I had been experiencing in my dreams.

My body stopped suddenly, and I, not noticing, too busily entranced by the light around me, stumbled into it. I was re-merged with my body, and regained control over my limbs. I turned in circles, then and when I returned later, but could never find my way back to my cabin. I had successfully crossed over, but had no breadcrumbs to lead me back.

As I walked onward, marveling at this world that I felt I could more closely participate in, I recognized the forest that I walked though, and soon came to a fork in the path. There was no sign indicating one choice over another, but I had been here before, had taken both paths already, and knew where they led. I chose the left path, and soon came upon the slice of civilisation that I had built with my friends all those years ago. I found my home just as I had left it, minus the thin layer of dust that had many small footprints cantering through it.


I didn't dream while I was there, as I lived in my dreams enough while I was awake. I still went on adventures, but was a might bit more cautious lest I get injured. Injured I did get, but my days and weeks spent recuperating were no less marvelous for my limited mobility. I spent years, and the time flew by. I aged slowly, though still faster than most of my friends, and knew nothing of the passage of time in the waking world.

One day, I found a glass door in a tree. It was not so much strange that it was a door in a tree, nor that it was locked to me, but what I saw on the other side of it: a boy or a man, not far from my age when I had set off on my own, sitting staring out the door. He looked unhealthy, though dressed comfortably, seated is a room larger than the tree (in itself, also not unusual) that was padded, walls and floor, and electrically lit.
I tried the handle, not surprised to find it locked, and then banged on the glass. He started, surprised, stepped forward and placed his hand on his side of the glass. I tried shouting to hm, but he shook his head, unable to hear me.

I tried gesturing, and he understood. For once I was grateful to my parents for my name, and I imagined he felt the same. Beijing. Cairo. Two cities with landmarks that had not changed radically in the time I was gone could be easily exchanged. I told him some of myself, mouthing slowly when my gestures lost him, and gesturing when he had difficult reading my lips.
I told him I couldn't come home.

Cairo reminded me of a passage that he'd read in a book by Charles deLint, one he had expounded upon and found new meaning in, but only brought him a glimpse of the world I had succeeded in reaching and a one-way ticket to the room in which he sat.


I could hardly keep myself from trying it. I held my fingers out in front of me, index to index, thumb to thumb, and tried to see the world that I had left behind. I sat beside his tree, leaning against it for metal support, and watching the world that I lived in as he saw it: though just the small window.

At first, I saw nothing, but slowly I began to see shapes moving and shifting in my peripheral vision, growing clearer with every passing day, until I was confident I could step through. I thought for a day where I should do it, whether I should try to walk back to where I had passed through myself, but there would be no telling what I might find on the other side. Here, if I succeeded, I could show Cairo that it wasn't just a dream he had, or a disorder of the mind.

So I stepped through. I was beside the tree, out of sight if Cairo. Maybe I should have stood against the door itself, but it's too late now.


I came out in an observation room looking into Cairo's cell. I tired to yell out to him, but he couldn't hear me, couldn't see me. I didn't see the doctors until it was almost too late. I banged on the window with a final act of desperation, kicking at it until they hauled me away, the same pattern I had pounded onto the glass door the day we met.


They won't let me see him. I don't know if he got my last message. The doctors are worried that my delusion will only make his worse, regardless of how many times I tell them that it's real. I'm not sure precisely where I am, but I think our rooms our geographically close. Learning how to feel how far you've gone in any direction is really important on the other side, something that could kill you if you estimated wrong.

I tried to step back again, and almost made it now that I know how the trick works, but they put me in a straight jacket when they saw what I was doing. It's hard without the visual aid of your hands being there, but if it's possible, I'm sure I'll get it eventually.

In other news, my dreams are coming back, but very slowly. They're about as vivid as the waking world was when I was getting close to crossing over, but they're helping me hold on and keep trying.

I hope Cairo's holding out alright. I hope we can get back to the dream world someday. I really want to hear his voice.

Thursday, April 7, 2011


I opened my eyes.

The window was still there, as unlikely as it was, beside the one-way, glassed observation room. If it had been a normal window, it would have looked into the observation room, the attached electronics closet, or the hallway beyond both, but it wasn't and as such, it didn't.

I always insisted on a tour around my room before I would settle down in new quarters, and the doctors gave in, believing it affected my neurosis. They kept moving me, hoping that something would be different enough that my behavior would change, but it never did. The simple fact of the matter was that they couldn't see the window; however, that didn't make me think it was any less real.

I knew my imagination was top notch, but there are some things that even the mind can not be tricked into, even within the realm of a full-fledged dream. I could make myself taste and smell food, rich and delicious, and other things, notably less so; I could make myself feel textures rubbing against me; I could make myself hear sounds that were never there; I could even make my internal gyroscopes fluctuated from imagined gravity shifts. However, I could never imagine into reality the feeling and warmth of sunlight on my skin, or the chill and wildness of moonlight. When I sat in front of that window, I could feel them both as the days wheeled by, at an altogether different rate than that of our own.

This window looked out onto a world that was as real as our own, if not more so.


The walls of my cell were padded enough to sleep on, springy enough to keep me from injuring myself if I chose to, warm enough to keep me from growing cold. I slept in there, took my meals in there, and even my doctor visited me there for my examinations. I was considered a danger to myself and others, but for different reasons.

I was considered a danger to myself because I would stare out the window to the exclusion of everything else, including eating, until the doctors discovered that they could place food in front of me during one of my "episodes" and I would eat it. On occasion, I would throw myself at the "apparition" that I saw in the wall.

I was considered a danger to others because I spoke of freedom from prisons between my "episodes." The doctors feared I was trying to stage a riot or a coup, but I was talking about the Cavern.


They found me in my apartment. I had cleared out all my belongings, and empty bookshelves were piled dangerously in one room. My bedroom was empty except for my bed-frame, and I has tied myself down to it, binding my head in place with the window to my back. I stared at a bare wall.

I was unconscious, my body gaunt and nearly void of life--I'd been in that position for several days, unmoving.


It was easy to close out the world, sitting in a white room on a comfortable floor, watching a world through a window that only I could see.

I didn't feel like I was in a prison any more than I had before they brought me in, because I knew that our world was a prison, with bars only I could see. I wasn't seeking to overthrow the guards or the doctors, and I wasn't trying to free anyone but myself.. I knew and acknowledged the fact that if I couldn't free myself first, I would never be able to show others the way.

I recognized the risk that once I was free, I might never be able to get back, but my dreams were clear enough to give me hope.


Next time you're in the shower, soap up your body last. Go ahead and turn off the faucet, once you've got a good balance of lather and steam, to make bubbles in the ring of your hands. Slowly make them larger, until the bubble is ringed by your arms, hands, fingertips barely touching, and chest. Watch the bubble's surface, the reflection of yourself stretch and writhe.
Take a breath, lift your hands over your head, still keeping the ring and bubble intact, and dive into it. Sometimes it helps to soap up your nose too.

The first time, I closed my eyes. I still close them, the transition is rough enough without having to watch it.

The first time, I came out of the other side of the bubble under water. I still do sometimes, but my aim is getting better.

The first time, I had to lather up my whole head, slick back my hair, and dislocate my shoulders. It still hurts, but it's worth it.

The first time, I couldn't get back.

They say some people can cross just by holding their hands out in front of them, index fingers and thumbs forming a ring. Through that ring is all most people see, all they can see, all they want to see. Focus on the ring, until something steps into your peripheral vision. Step sideways and follow it, keeping your eyes on the ring of your index fingers and thumbs. Step sideways through the veil.

The first time, that's how I got back.


Time was passing meaninglessly, and I never bothered to count the days. The lights in here never dimmed at night, never were bright enough to keep me awake. My feeding cycle was regular. They left food in my cell in front of where they supposed the window was and took the remnants back after I had eaten. Sometimes, the food sat there for several hours, but never more than a day.

Even if I had had a way to tally the days, there would have been no reason to: I did little enough of that when I was out in the world, my schedule so regular that the months flew by without me noticing, sometimes startled by the coldness of the air when stepping outside after working like a zombie through the summer.

My paychecks were automatically deposited in my checking account, my rent automatically taken out. If the balance got over a certain level, the difference would automatically be transferred into my savings account, and the reverse if it went below a certain level. I paid for everything with my debit card, and carried no cash.


I usually slept in front of the window, often being comforted by the warmth of the sun shining through it onto me. I never noticed whether I tanned or not, and wouldn't have been surprised either way.

One day, I woke and someone was looking back at me. When they noticed me raising myself back into my sitting position, they started banging on the window. I slid forward and put my hand against it.

It shook.

They were clearly shouting, but I couldn't hear a word. I mimed back, and when they had calmed down enough to see, they calmed down, sat on the grass on the other side, and mimed back.


Sometimes she was there and sometimes she wasn't. Sometimes she left suddenly, or appeared suddenly, but it didn't seem to be a big deal.

Through our conversations, I learned her named was Beijing, and shared my own: Cairo.

She knew what I was trying to do, and tried to discourage me. Life on the other side was hard: dangers everywhere and places of safety few and far between. But the colors were more vivid, just as they were in my dreams, and I couldn't live forever in this place, knowing there was something more.

She had felt the same way, at first, but now she couldn't get back.

I tried teaching her the trick I had learned, after learning myself that fiction was more true than anyone knew, painted as fiction to keep us safely trapped.


She stopped coming to see me, and I slipped back into my unenthusiastic routine.


There was a commotion outside my cell, and the observation window that I could never see through, vibrated like someone was pounding on it.

I stood carefully, my legs not used to holding my weight. I placed my hand gently on it, feeling the vibrations. I recognized the pattern.


Somebody once said that the only difference between a door and a window is that windows are harder to open, and harder still to pass through.

But not impossible.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

War Cry

You can rip a hole in me
       but you can't take away my soul.
You can dig furrows in my body
       but you can't dampen my spirit.
You can murder me from the inside
       but you can't make me beg for my life.

It's already my life.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011


you can kick me out of your life;
go on: just brick up those doors.
you can lock your heart away,
but can't take the memories I stored.

I'm not just a sad song with nothing to say,
I'm not sitting and waiting for your approving okay.

I still remember all the touches:
they're never going away.
everyone always forgets my
eidetic tactile memory.

I still remember all the touches,
and not just from you,
from all the others--
the surviving and otherwise too.

I'm not just a sad song with nothing to say,
I'm not sitting and waiting for your approving okay.

you can try to make me feel nothing,
but I live on in my head.
my dreams become reality;
you'll be imagined instead.

Some lines borrowed from "Disenchanted" by My Chemical Romance. I claim no ownership to these lines.

Just Like Everybody Else

you do it the same way, every time:
setting up expectations where I can't deliver.
then you wonder why I get so upset:
you're setting me up for failure!

Monday, April 4, 2011

A Challenger Has Appeared

I keep trying to write one that doesn't rhyme,
but this challenge has not come in time!
It's gotten even worse:
I'm now thinking in verse,
even when I try to counter it by design.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Unobtanium Brick Road

I've found all I need to find,
found my path and my route,
I'm stepping forward through the wall,
all your barriers I'll do without.

I'm making my own bricks,
and the mortar's my formula too;
the destination's for me alone,
so I won't be inviting you.

Without You, Nothing Matters

hold me til the world falls apart
and never let me go.
hold me til all the trees fall
and the wind ceases to blow;
hold me, just hold me,
and I won't have to pretend.
hold me, forever hold me,
and I won't care if the world does end.

TWIMC You Know Who You Are

To whom it may concern:

I know you seem to think that you can try to propose times to "meet up" and return our borrowed belongings that have suddenly become overdue at the termination of our relationship, but trying to insert places and times that fit your schedule do not always fit mine.

Perhaps you should, instead of creating new events and times and trying to squeeze them into my schedule, arrange meetings at places that you already know I have set time allowances for in my own schedule.

You should know my schedule by now, since the majority of it has remained the same for the past two years, which is only slightly less than the amount of time knowing each other's schedule was important.

I know that you seem to think that your schedule is more full than my own, your plans more important than my own, because they are, in fact, yours. You also seem to be under the impression, however false it may be, that your sacrifices were worth considerably more than my own, because they were, again, yours.

Remember, however, this: I am working two jobs, juggling two part-time jobs, currently trying to turn one into a full-time position. I am paying rent, insurance, gas, all expenses minus food and electricity, as well as owning my own car.

You, on the other hand, are attending school and living entirely upon the welfare of your parents.

My schedule allows for two things: work and rest from work. Your schedule is filled with school, homework, and social events, as well as rest from all of the above.

I will repeat myself: Perhaps you should, instead of creating new events and times and trying to squeeze them into my schedule, arrange meetings at places that you already know I have set time allowances for in my own schedule. Times that fall within the "rest from work" portions of my schedule.

Of course, you could always drop my things off at the house I'm currently renting space in at your convenience, for which you already have the phone number to insure someone is home, provide me with a cost estimate of the things of yours that I have not returned, and I can subtract them from the considerable amount of money that you owe me and have no timeline for paying back. I'll even print out a receipt.

Never again yours,

Penthouse Suite

when you hear me write of love,
you know not of whom I speak;
you've been telling me what to say
far too long,
now it's my turn
even if my signal's weak.

when you hear me tell a story,
you think you've inspired one of the roles;
you're a smaller player than you realize,
wearing a mask
far oversized,
but I'm directing the show.

when you hear me
you think you're alone on my floor;
but the stairs don't go up this high,
the elevator is
locked and keyed
and my bouncers will show you the door.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

When War Arrives

I don't feel safe in this place anymore, but I feel like I finally have a role. Strange how war brings more roles for people into the community that weren't there in a time of peace.

There's a humvee on nearly every block these days, parked, sometimes empty, but there. It's supposed to be reassuring, I suppose, and there for our safety. It's just a new lawn ornament to me. Nothing special.
I've taken up running again. Haven't done that in years. It's really not safe to walk around, or run, but I still do it. My weights are getting more work too, but the straps that used to bind them to my ankles and wrists have long since worn through. Their weight distribution was uncomfortable anyway; I've restitched them, spread them out a bit more, added more weight. I'm getting stronger, faster, and I keep adding more weight. I know there's supposed to be a point where they do more harm than good, but I've passed that point and my body is holding together better than ever.

I'm seeing more and more people out walking, but fewer of them running. Those that are are still passing me up, making jokes about my youth and lack of effort, but I see the skimpy clothes they wear and those are completely unrealistic. I'm just wearing modified street clothing, but my whole wardrobe is modified these days. I've been wearing a lot more weight, not just in sand and metal bars when I exercise, but I've been fairly heavily armed. Not when I'm running though; then I just wear my two favorite blades, one metal, one hardened plastic, one on my left wrist, one in a special pocket in my right armpit. All the sheaths are home-made; when everybody else was running in the front doors and raiding the gun shops and grocers, I had my car pulled up to the back loading dock of the craft store. People looked at me like I was crazy, but when industries start to fail, they'll be wishing they'd had my forethought.

The government barely bothers with the warning level anymore. Those who still watch television keep track of it, I suppose, but to those of us who are more careful with our energy-allocation, it might as well be red/high all the time. It really doesn't matter: we're living every day just the same as the last.


I don't know how anybody else is living these days, but I know our basement is a lot deeper than it shows in the original plans. I don't even live upstairs in my bedroom anymore, everything has been moved down into my new hole. It's smaller, somewhat cramped, especially with my stocks kept separate from the rest of the family's--they don't agree with my precaution either--but I've caught Mom rifling through my threads a few times.

Dad and I put down a stone floor, and its not a perfect fit, nor the cleanest, but I've taken to going barefoot in the house. I'm not up to running without my shoes, but I'm still working up to it. The callouses are coming along just fine.

I thought about stashing my weapons in some hiding-hole, but lately I'm only taking them off when I shower and exercise, especially since that last bombing. Someone decided to hit FermiLab, even though anybody who knows anything knows that only a few scientists are still sheltering there, and everyone else is just another squatter. Fermi is only about half a mile away, so we're pretty much running on fuchsia alert, or infrared, depending on who you ask.


I still have my cell phone, computer, laptop, speaker system, but none of them are plugged in anymore. My cell phone gets a boost when I work for spare energy credits, which is really all that's worth getting paid in these days, or food or Chinese stock options.

I'm eating pretty steadily, since I've been helping with malnutrition and fasting studies. I used to be in a control group, but with my exercise regimen, they've got me in a class of my own now. Before the war arrived, I was a desk jockey, working customer service of all places, and suffering from irregular joint pain. I like to think my body is good at adjusting itself to what circumstances require, and it seems to be doing it better than anyone else's; trust me, I'm the most surprised.

My cell phone is always with me, sheathed like everything else. There's a fake weight in one of my pockets, but the pickpockets have thinned out considerably and most of my pockets are stitched shut


I'll probably be leaving soon. This place is emptying out and there's so little left. Most of the studies have been canceled as I'm the only subject left, and most of the scientists have gone too.

I've been digging deeper below the house, closing up old passages behind me as I go, moving all my stores deeper. I've picked up all the generators that got left behind and have been pulling them in by hand; I leave my weights off for those trips and make sure nobody catches me. It's hard to believe it's only been a year.
My stitching has gotten better and tougher, though it's still entirely by hand--the generators are reserved for air-circulation. I'm using techniques that hold everything together better, longer, in fewer pieces than can be endlessly, or nearly, reused and reformed.

My cell phone can't get a signal anymore, despite the boosters I scavenged from the former local service stations. It runs in solitary mode when I bother to charge it; I hope there's a software update out there somewhere...


I'm packing up my sledge, the car is long gone, and the air is starting to get colder than it should this time of year. I wouldn't be surprised what damage this has all done to the normal cycle of seasons. This log, though highly abbreviated from what I'd originally intended, will be coming with me, though several copies are staying behind. I hooked up a computer for one last print run, using up the last of the fuel.

The generators are all down, drained, and the last of the food is going to be eaten today or tomorrow. Hopefully my body isn't done adapting, because I don't know when my next meal will be.

I'm going to miss this place, so much of my sweat and blood went into it, keeping those close to me safe until I was the only one left. I hope there will be something left for someone to come back to, but I already know it won't be me. I won't be back.


My dreams have been growing more vivid. My brain is changing, I hope it's adapting, but I'd be hard pressed to say how. My last meal is gone three days back, and I'm only just starting to feel a little hungry. I don't know what's coming next, but I don't think I'll be in much state to keep this log going.

I think the changes are accelerating.


It's getting too hard to type, to write, to move. I'm starting to see things, and I've managed to stash myself away somewhere... I don't even know where I am anymore, but it doesn't matter. I haven't seen another person or animal in six weeks, and it's been seven since I left home. I've been hearing things too. Birds, I think, though it's hard to tell.

As I've walked, all alone now, my sledge emptied and deserted, I've been seeing doorways where there shouldn't be doorways: in the middle of the road where there's no wall, floating in the air, and they're only visible from a certain angle.

I think that's where the birdsong is coming from. I think tomorrow I'm going to walk through one.


There's someone on the other side. I saw them today. I've left all my breadcrumbs, I hope someone can find out all that's happened and make sense of it all. I don't know what will happen, but I want to be able to tell myself I tried. My goal is to shake their hand.


We found subject 1227 lying in the middle of the road. His body was surprisingly healthy, and showed every sign of still being alive, but there seems to be no consciousness. He left behind a journal that doesn't seem real, but it lines up with the history we've been able to dig up. His stomach was completely devoid of food, and he clearly hadn't eaten in months, but there were no signs of malnutrition.

His journal spoke of breadcrumbs, and we've followed his journey backward to his home. He made an amazing trip, covering an unbelievable distance. We found the house intact, though everything was covered by a heavy layer of dust. The inhabitants are starting to come back, and there's no sign of his family yet, but these people remember him. We see no reason to discount his record as fiction, as superhuman as it all seems.

We intend on keeping his body alive and intact as long as we can, not difficult since it seems to require no sustenance, and the muscles are showing none of the usual patterns of deterioration.

If and when his family shows up, we'll bring them in to see him. At that point, it will be up to them what to do. Since his body isn't on life support, we can hardly justify unplugging him. Until then, we'll just keep waiting and watching.

There's no reason to believe he was anything more than human when everything started, so there's no reason to believe he's alone in this state. We'll keep looking until we run out of funding or we find the answer. We will continue to hope, but in the end, hope is all we have.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

What I Know

I don't know why you'd want to look at me,
fudging the details is all I do.
I tried to fill them all in and right,
but they keep turning into something new.

I don't know why you'd want me to watch you,
every mistake makes my head hurt the more.
I tried to teach, you tried to learn,
but nothing changes anymore.

I don't know anything or anyone,
I don't know where to go,
I don't know why I tried to bother,
so I'm going to stop trying to know.

Thursday, March 24, 2011


"Andrew, go home."

"But... but..."


Flexible Architecture

my home is where my heart is,
it follows me where I go.
my heart's still beating in my chest,
so my body it must follow.

I gave my home legs
to walk around with ease.
I gave my home wings
to join me where I please.

I gave my home freedom,
my home gives me hope.
it is there when I'm proud,
when I'm humbled, when I mope.

my home is always with me
since I stopped giving my heart away.
it sure is growing cold,
but I'm starting to like it that way.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

I Don't Want Your Fate

while you're reaching for the top floor,
I'm reaching for the stars;

you're pacing your dorm room.
I'm pacing the streets;
you're studying the books,
I, my budget sheets.

you're going to college
to get a degree,
gonna work so hard
but never get free.

you're going somewhere
and think I'm just staying right here...
but I'm moving on now
I'm moving off now,
and my goal's quite clear.

you're pacing your apartment,
and I'm pacing mine;
you from room to room,
I'm circle a dime.

you're going to work,
getting paid on salary,
working so hard,
never thinking of me.

you're going somewhere
and think I'm just staying right here...
but I'm moving on now
I'm moving off now,
and my goal's quite clear.

you're pacing the church,
I'm pacing the printer's
you're veiled all in white
I'm covered in ink and splinters.

you're going to be married,
buying a house and a home,
you're in love with that man,
yet you feel all alone.

you've stopped moving forward,
and think I'm just staying right there...
but I'm moving on now,
I'm moving off now,
and my goal's growing nearer.

you're pacing the hospital,
I'm pacing the streets;
you're waiting for someone,
who you can't wait to meet.

I'm striding down somewhere,
my name's finally been called.
I'm moving to elsewhere,
where I'll fly, not fall.

you've stopped moving forward,
someone else is moving for you.
I've caught the stars now,
I'm among stars now,
my work finally due.

you're pacing the gallery,
the hallway, the store...
you're wondering if he remembers
you anymore.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Why Bother?

why bother stepping outside,
spring's barely melting the ground.
I've got no-where to go
few enough friends to be found.

why bother going to work,
the money's already spent,
when it's not sitting in my bank account,
I'm starving to pay the rent.

why bother going to bed,
just to wake back up in the morn?
there's nothing for me on the morrow,
just another worthless storm.

why bother further my schooling,
it will never pay me back.
I'll spend years running in circles
and never find my track.

why bother driving on the right,
when nothing lights up my days.
if I just drive on the left, alone,
it will all just go away.

Saturday, March 12, 2011


why can't you let her rest,
you signed in with her name again.
it's obvious she's not coming back,
can't you let her have her peace!

you signed in with her name again!
so now I must go in and change it
so you will let her have her peace,
let everlasting silence come again.

I went in and changed the password,
so you stop pretending you can have her name,
let the name sink into silence again,
and finally let her rest.


don't you ever wonder.
she begged me for that tablet.
an overly expensive gift
for that christmas.

she wanted that tablet,
begged me for it,
spread it between birthday and christmas.
she never saw that christmas.

she begged me for
what you now own,
receive for a holiday she couldn't reach.
or was it a pity gift?

you now own that tablet,
the overly expensive goft.
don't you ever wonder?


the thoughts burn me inside.
I never hated you,
hope you could forgive,
I gave her up for you.

when I see what you might enjoy
I send it over, though I get spite back,
I gave the same to her;
reminders I still think of you.

I'm not asking you to replace
the joy I found in her,
the memories are reminders enough

I'm not asking even for friendship.
(hope you could forgive)
just civil acquaintanceships. burn me inside.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Building Yesterday

we're building Atlantis everyday,
the beauty we work with our hands and clay,
statues in the landscape will come around again
when today will be tomorrow filled with yesterday's men.

time is a cycle and coming in close,
we're at the boundary of everything we know.
time's passing faster than the speed of light,
now we're falling backwards into historical nights.

Monday, February 28, 2011

Nearly Anonymous

you keep trying to block me
but I'm more numerous than you know
I have names long stashed away,
sleeper cells ready to go.

Monday, February 21, 2011


close your eyes
           ...go, and be peace

Minnistry of Memories

more than just a black and white,
since by color we do not judge,
but when the body cannot bear her soul,
we can only provide the final crutch.

come so far and learn so much,
along this green, grassy road;
where the cats don't care,
the tennis balls don't wear,
and experience is worth so much more than gold.

her eyes are sad but for unfading glow,
tragic intermission in her show.

tonight her body will be laid to rest,
and her brilliant soul set free;
we wish her good journeys, all the best,
and soon enough, again, we'll meet.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Is This Why You're Staring?

you're sitting there, and leaning
over the balustrade, and thinking
there are words on his tongue.

you're smiling there, and meaning
to get up and ask, and dreaming
those words are meant for you.

you're standing there, and waiting
for your mind to stop whirling, deliberating
the lyrics he leaves unsung.

you're leaning forward, and wanting
his pen to start moving and jotting
those words he gifts to you.

Blindingly Bright

regardless how dark you dress,
your soul is still bright,
your spirit lights up the room for me,
I'm more apt to stay and fight.

regardless how the gloom
tries to come and bear us down,
your determination
helps me hold my ground.

you may disappear into the shadows
but you never leave my heart,
I know you're there and fighting,
so I'll stay and do my part.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

It Doesn't Have To Be A Dream

where we can run and
where we can explore,
where we can fly and
where we can soar,
where there's no limit,
no city, no night,
there we can live
in both shadows and light.

where utopia may reside
where we've got nothing left to hide.
here I'll be free
when there's no-one with me,
just the sun on my back
and wind 'neath my wings.

The Reclamation

Here lie the remnants.

towers once tall and yearning,
fires long since quenched their burning,
now grow vines
on what's left behind
of the city.

Nothing left to torment.

the limit of human audacity
to hide from the depravity
in buildings high
breaching the sky
and nature's dignity.

Friday, February 18, 2011


plug me into my visions
where I never feel the pain
of living, caring, losing,
and the colors never drain

plug me into a world
where I can forget this one exists
the killing, hating, betraying;
my friends waiting to whisk
me away.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Interpretation: Living In Two Worlds, Sleeping In One

There are two windows in my bedroom,
one I look out every day,
one I look out every night.
I see my neighbor out the one,
out the other, a magic sight.

This started from a prompt about what you see looking out your bedroom window, either a photograph, a drawing, or a written piece. Naturally, I chose the written style, as it is my primary artistic style. What I see out of my window, the one that actually sits in the wall and that light shines through in the morning (it faces east) and moonlight shines through at night, it my neighbor's back yard. It's not a particularly nice backyard either.

However, since I am a good dreamer, and I have already created pieces talking about how I'm looking through a window into a new world as a form of escape (found in "Welcome Home" and "The Window"), I drew on that to create a window here. The window is a portal to my subconscious, and to climb through it, all I have to do is close my eyes here.

The window in the day
is just a window in my wall.
But the window in the night
is a window to my soul.

Every dream I've dreamt,
every memory that I've held,
every fear I've broken,
every demon that I've felled,

every time I close my eyes
and see the other place I live:
I open the pane,
leap through it again,
spread my arms, soar and fly.

No need to shake me from my bed,
I'm already moving, ready again.
No need to repeat what you just said:
I've been looking forward to this all day.

Open the window
Open the sky
Open your arms
and let us fly

Open your mind,
Open your soul,
Open the cage,
and soon be whole.

Open the pool
dive in to your dreams,
what I see from this window
is not what it seems.

There is nothing that I cannot do here, fly, swim, run without concern of exhaustion, lie without joint pain (as I suffer from in this world), create endlessly and with no boundaries.

We journeyed so far tonight,
but now I must return.
This body needs to sleep,
it's my other world's turn.

Unfortunately, I can only play in that world for so long before I must return to this one. Over there, there is a house, just like the one I live in when I'm awake, but the only room inside is my bedroom, and the only way in is my bedroom's window.

The only way out is to lie down in my bed, close my eyes, and reach again through that window inside my head, and step through into the waking world once more. This leads to a question the I have addressed in Dream Classier, which is: how do we tell which is the real world? Which one do we really sleep in, and dream of the other?

Why can't both places be just as real? Two bodies, one soul, and the body without the soul must sleep still and sleep.

Open my eyes, climb out of bed,
my feet touch the ground.
I may not fly, 'til tomorrow night,
for now, I'm gravity-bound.

This poem is available on my deviantArt account here.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Switch In My Head

the enemy's gate is down,
and my head is up...
in the clouds,
in the sky,
and I'm passing o'er the battle high,
but never high enough.

throw the switch in my head
and turn the world about...
once o'er the ground,
now upside-down
and the battle rains down instead;
now has too far to drop.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Paper Cuts Deeper Than Swords

you don't know the times
I bled out onto the page,
wrestling with my demons,
regretting my inner rage.

you don't know how I fought
to stand here and say this tonight.
just please honor my sacrifice
for freedom, for my life.

Dangerous Liaison

you've danced like nobody's watching
and brushed your pain away.
you've stood there always watching,
but you always turn away.

you've brought me all these cures,
reducing most of my strain,
but the greatest of them all
is watching you look away.

Graceful Interruption of Grace

out in the world
row on row
stood the posts
interrupting flow
but dance from cap
to cap to cap
every step will dance
and clap,
and true grace
will follow

Dirty Beauty

pollution makes it pretty,
lights the sky with fire and ice,
coats the world as we watch it,
perhaps it's worth the price.

I wish I had mountains
that I could see from my town,
but all I get are clouds
when they merge with the ground.

The Sidewalk Is No Place For A Lady (Mature)

Mature Content

watch me through the window,
I've got my eye on you.
you can dance out on the sidewalk,

Continue reading on DreamCruder

More Than Enough

just as beautiful when you turn away,
I don't ever have to see your face.
just enough to show your grace,
and I'll never ever know your name.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Untitled (Mature)

Mature Content

i don't have that part
i took a scalpel and cut it out
i don't have that part:
i hollowed me out and sloshed the rest about.

don't tell me who i am
when we've never met before.
don't tell me what i am
or i won't come 'round anymore.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Hold On Tight, Life Is A Bumpy Ride

grab your world by the horns
and never let it go.
your body will age
but imagination need not grow.

grab your dreams and hold on tight,
don't let them slip away.
you'll add others to the stack,
but you'll need them all someday.

Overshadowed and Outshined

we both know you can fly,
we both know you can fall,
we both know you're magic,
but I've run up against a wall.

how can I compare
to your wonders glowing bright?
all I can do is sit and watch,
break out some paper and write.

Untitled Controversial Fiction (Mature)

Mature Content

I have to remember things carefully, because otherwise they will take over again, and nobody wants that.

I remember, years ago, before I learned so much of what I now know, wanting friends. I never got along with others, no matter how I tried, and I did try. Something they saw in me made me different in their eyes, even though when you're kids, everybody looks the same. I pitied myself then, not knowing there was strength in standing solitary, or a difference in loneliness and being alone.

I was alone for many years after that, and even after I learned the difference. It was during one night, only a few years ago now, when everything changed. I had a dream.

I'm always having dreams, and I have always been good at remembering them, how vivid they are and how vibrant everything is, but this one was different. The colors were different, but they still seemed right; the sky wasn't blue, but since it didn't feel strange that it wasn't blue, I didn't really take notice of what color it was.

I opened my eyes, and even though I was lying in my bed with my familiar room laid out around me as it was when I had closed them, I knew that I was asleep. I stood, dressed, and walked out of my house. Streetlights glowed more softly than they do here, alternating sides of the road that we lived on. I walked, and though nothing moved, I could feel time moving, slowly, steadily, and painlessly. The subdivision was shaded purple in the night, and I walked for a long time.

Eventually, I came to a house of someone I knew. It barely mattered who they were then, and it doesn't matter now at all. I walked up to the front step and opened the front door. Knowing the neighborhood and how doors were always bolted, I realized that all doors were open to me here. I climbed the stairs to their bedroom, even though I'd never been there, I knew exactly where it was. The hallway was lined with family photos, framed and hanging level. I opened the door to their bedroom, and the purple shading followed me inside.

I sat on their bed, beside their sleeping form. It was calm and peaceful. I felt myself smiling calmly, and reached out to touch them. Their skin was cold. Panicked, I started shaking them, the bed, the room. I was afraid that they would die, even though their identity and life in the waking world wouldn't have mattered much to me; they were just another face. Finally, they shifted, eyes opening as if for the first time seeing the world, and smiled at me.

I left then, as they reached out to my hand to thank me, and their fingers brushed against my skin, still cold. I think they called out to me, or maybe they didn't, but I heard words following me as I left. Thank you for waking me. I've been trapped in that place for so long. I forgot how to leave.

I walked further on into the dreamscape that night, but did eventually return to my home, my room, my own bed, lay down, and close my eyes. When I opened my eyes again, I was standing in the world anew, refreshed, awake, and better than I had felt in a long time.

When I walked into my high school, I caught myself smiling, without realizing I was smiling, without the ache in my cheeks when I force a smile for too long. Nobody looked at me, as they rarely do, but I heard their whispers. A student had died in the night, in their sleep, and the doctors could make no sense of it.

When I heard the name and the address, my knees grew weak. When I saw pictures of their hallway and bedroom, I stumbled. When someone reached out to catch me, I let them think that I was trying to hold back the tears, but inside, I was still smiling.

This piece is not technically another untitled piece. The title of this piece is "Untitled Controversial Fiction."

Take Only Memories

we came and built up the world,
then left and moved away.
the earth has taken back the land,
soon our footprint will be washed away.


give your cap a tilt,
and try not to grin,
I see it playing, hiding
between your jaw and chin.

give your cap a tilt,
and I'll give mine a flip.
it lands safe on my head
(I've been practising quite a bit).

give your cap a tilt,
pretend to look aside,
when I turn away,
leave the ground,
and fly.

Teach You How To Dream

let me open up a world for you,
to where your dreams are real.
let me hold the door as you pass through,
so I know I've helped you feel.

let me let you into my world
where you're not bound to the sand,
where your dreams are flesh and stone,
let me hold your hand.

it's a great big world in there,
in the space between your ears.
I'd be happy to open it up for you,
alleviate all your fears,

just take me along with you,
I'd be the perfect guide:
I know the doors and the ways
that lead you deeper inside.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Dream Journal: 29 Jan 2011

Steve wanted me to fight for him (MMA, not wrestling), joining the beginners' division, local chapter, him as my sponsor. I signed up, and he gave me the date of the first meeting - the 15th.

I was at my high school, but was in college. My first block class was Amer Hist in room 115 which was down at the end of the hall.

The teacher had classmates alternate between reading the beginning chapters of the book and the syllabus. In the syllabus and in the textbook, there was a mention of safety and security for minority students. An administrator came into the room and installed a wide and short box on one of the doors in the back of the room, then opened it and showed us a small room with two other doors for access into the room from the outside of the building. The device on the inside door was to allow only students into the classroom.

I'd taken the class before, so I stepped out, thinking about the meeting, and passed into the Box.

After several minutes, Jill, as a hall monitor, approached, and my mind starting racing for a reason to be out of class and "wandering the halls" but when she opened the door, it was only to tell me 15-minute break was about to begin. After she finished saying it, the bell rang.

I walked back down to 115 to grab my things which I'd left on my desk, and found a small crowd gathered outside the classroom. I followed their ringleader into the room, where he confronted a group of dark-tanned students who weren't there when I left. They were trying to blend in with the rest of the class.

"You don't belong here, you don't go to school here. You're just trapped here from 1945. Now get out," the ringleader told them.

They left the room.

I grabbed my things and instead of leaving, went into the "Safe Room" and stayed until it got dark, then re-entered the school.

End Dream
Woke on Jan 29, 2011 morning at 0330

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

It's Never Just A Dream

I was wandering as we do,
looking for my life,
leaving what I once had,
long since paid the price.

I was hoping for an answer
to a question I don't dare ask,
I was searching til I found it,
and there I'd end my task.

I came upon a house,
middle of no-where, circus out back,
no-where too important
just a shelter on my track.

My cell phone bars were empty
but local wifi's open wide,
I made my host hungry
for technology by my side.

Sleep came slowly, lately,
within abandoned tiger-pit
beside my convenient compatriots,
safety in numbers not always a fit.

He drove his car right over me
and pinned me to the ground,
took my magic cell phone
to be the fanciest one around.

What he didn't know: I'm a dreamer,
and I always get my due.
I woke, rewound, and slept again,
and had another chance to choose.

I couldn't run, couldn't fight,
so magic was my key,
I drew a bubble around myself,
my droid close beside me.

He drove his car right over me,
my bubble lifted it from the ground,
I, neither injured nor trapped,
he, not winning what he found.

Morning came and rested
I stood and yawned and stretched.
Restful sleep is hard to have,
when journeying far and westward,

but I did and all my things
still journey by my side.
Life is more than just a dream
when you wander far and wide.

Poetic rendition of Dream Journal: 20 Jan 2011

Saturday, January 22, 2011

No Sin In This Pride

I know you have wings,
no need to hide them from the world.
the others are simply jealous
that you wear yours unfurled.

Dreaming Awake

I walked stronger towards the light. This light that binds us; burdens us; this light that bears down heavily on our shoulders, and only then does it set us free.

I am learning the truth. Truth is such a fragile thing, though more common than sense or wisdom. I am learning and growing and reaching further than I have before with each passing moment.

Hold my hand, and together we will lift each other up.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Dream Journal: 20 Jan 2011

I was out in the country, in an underpopulated area, borrowing the backyard of a total stranger with some people who were not friends, just convenience-friends, "safety in groups" and all that. There were four of us, each with our own camping gear, but it was a clear night and warm enough that we slept without tents, in just our sleeping bags.

The man whose property we slept on had an old circus fairground in his backyard, a chain link fence thrown around the rides and mechanics that we broken down and dangerous, but he did leave the tiger pit outside. It looked like a giant dog-bowl painted red, once, and was sunk into the ground a bit so that the sand that filled it was level with the ground outside. There were two openings in the short walls opposite each other, and I slept closest to one that was pointed away from the house, but toward his neighbor's property.

For some reason, the person who owned the property we were using wanted my cell phone, which was the only one anyone had ever seen get reception in the area (though in truth, I wasn't getting reception, but running it using local wi-fi networks). Yes, my Droid was in the dream with me.

He tried taking it several times, and while I was awake, was unable to. After I went to sleep however, he jumped in his car, a beat up, classic Cadillac, drove it on top of me so I was pinned down by the front bumper, and took my cell phone.

I woke in a cold sweat, my eyes rocketing open, but I don't bolt upright like I did when I was little. I performed my little calming exercise, rolled over, and closed my eyes, but also grabbed my cell phone, though it was lying next to my bed, and tucked it between my thighs.

When I returned to the dream, I was lying in the tiger-pit again, and I hear a car door close, and then an engine turn over. I was experiencing mild in-dream paralysis, so I was unable to run, fly, jump, fight back, anything. Fortunately, I had fresh in my memory a pagan protection ritual performed by some close friends they called bubbling.

I calmed my mind despite the roaring of the engine growing nearer, and pushed a mental bubble of protection outward from myself, using my sternum as the center point. As I pictured it growing, I grabbed my cell phone and tucked it between my thighs.

The car hit my bubble, which in the dream-realm, solidified into a clear, semi-permeable shield. I could see, I could hear, I could breathe, but he couldn't get in, and I couldn't get out. I didn't feel claustrophobic: I felt safe (especially with the car hovering above me, the wheels spinning in the air, held up by my protective bubble).

In the morning, the tire tracks were still there, scuffled foot prints around a circle in the sand, and the smell of burning rubber in the air. Inside that circle, the sand was smooth and undisturbed, and I woke refreshed. My convenience-friends and I parted ways, and I kept journeying west.