Archive for July, 2008

Masters Of War

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin’
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it’s your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people’s blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You’ve thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain’t worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I’m young
You might say I’m unlearned
But there’s one thing I know
Though I’m younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death’ll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand o’er your grave
‘Til I’m sure that you’re dead

Copyright ©1963


You untethered blimp of potential, flitting to hallway’s corners, areas unshakable by earthquake, ingesting weighty objects of association of feelings, a lone choice, the solace of your meshy, anchor-free, swung wide, self-classified condition.  There, above the underside of a reeking, pity-inducing crevice, with only your self’s servitude simmering socratic symbolism, you find the time never to sleep.  And what is piece to you, if not, upon gaging, a stair above the spotted linoleum floor’s foundation, argument, sexless twin sister of rivalry, shuffler of power, satisfaction’s lonely effigy.   But, whether abstracting, undulating above the cement bed on inaction, pursuing an enclosed offer to no one but alone, sea-sawing, generating submersibal patterns, concluding, marinating in potential of sandstorm, you can’t manage, while managing, the right, the pill of nature, to shed old skin.  Unfathoming countless pencil tics, the me factory gone upwards, those potentials may be stamped into quantification.  Rightfully, with sly mobility of, nonetheless wincing, pergatory’s cartoon agent, reruns, the white noise of dull hum, static defense system, sensory clogs of colored variety, bar genuine query, children’s society.  The conflict, long running, something of a classic breeding, purposes not depth of height, discovery catalogs, elemental, omnipotent, emphathy, but, forthrightly, low waves of safety’s frequencies, emitted habit enforcement, trust dumbers, remembered imagined potential, fizzles and burps a steady win.

I walk by the camp’s infirmary, standing gray walls that don’t seem to be promoting health, and feel a combination of anger, homesickness, and guilt, all at once, knowing that a little girl inside is suffering for a belief that was forced upon her at birth.  My steps are continually wobbly because I’m five years old, my shoes are untied, remaining that way because I don’t want to attract attention from the older girls who already seem annoyed by my unchosen young age, and asking one of them to stop and help tie them would also stop the line’s momentum.
The gray infirmary becomes shrouded behind more and more trees as we continue walking, the girl inside, who the other girls say is close to death because of her crazy parents, lies in a bed behind a window with a curtain that is never open.  I walk slow, not just because of the laces, but also because a part of me wants to see her in person, envious of the girl.  Being cared for by a team of nurses in the room, on the verge of having no responsibilities, even for a kid, the whole camp silently offering their sympathies, no one expecting you to be the hero in complicated games you are to young to understand, I think her situation is, in a way, comforting.
My Mom sent me a letter, which made me happy, but now I don’t know what to do.  I want another letter, or cookies, like the other kids who don’t think about their parents until a counselor tells them they got a package.  I think about my parents, sitting at home, proud of their decision, which didn’t involve my opinion, to send me away for the summer.  Before I got the letter I thought I would never talk to either of them again, my new home the cramped and smelly cabin, forever sleeping among girls who remind me I am the youngest.  Camp’s atmosphere does not promote the flourishing of sensitive girls, with heavy wool blankets that make my exposed skin itchy and red, spiders crawling on the ceiling at night, and food that isn’t good enough on its own to taste good, with syrup, ketchup, and barbecue sauce coming with every meal.
The only real difference between the girls and me is that we get excited about different things.  I saw a massive squirrel running vertically up a tree a few days ago, my mouth formed into a smile without my control, it almost looked like my cat back home, and just as I was about to point it out to the girl standing next to me, she squealed in excitement as a boy lifeguard walked by in the distance.

White Space

There’s no way an old set of fishing hooks could have a smell on their own; there’s just not enough material to leave a scent on.  But still, my mind ran along on its own to fetch up the reek of live worms shivering in wet mud, beetles spraying their stink, dusty moths from the rotted trunk of a pine tree; all the free live bait waiting to be captured in the backyard which the hooks had once been used for skewering.
Of course there were lures, too.  Some of them unused.  Bug-eyed shrimp made of stretchy rubber and little green minnows with flexible tails, still in their plastic casings.  I left everything in the tackle box as I  had found it, except for a water-droplet shaped, two-pound weight used for deep-sea fishing.  Felt too good in my hand.  Had to keep it right there in my palm and let the light, coal gray iron swing the momentum of my arm for me as I walked into the trees.
Grown into the ivy, under it, entangled in its branches and detritus, musty brown bottles of beer still remained.  They were like the roots of some overgrown, towering giant.  Deeper into the woods, where I guessed my tree fort had been, I could find only one remnant.  A foothold level with my chest was stuck to a tree by a single brittle nail; its head poking crookedly from the center.  The rope swing, the rest of the footholds and the flag were all gone; even the yellow paint we left on the bark was not to be found.  Everything but that one rusty nail and a piece of scrap-wood remained.


Characater A:  Short, fat and bald male.  This person is extremely attentive, focused, determined and relatively dispassionate.  Judging by the words this person chooses and the way this person carries himself, it is obvious that he is proud of his own education.  The technical terms and strictly informal speech used by this man point towards an upper-class lifestyle.
Character B:  Tall and lanky male.  Lost in thought, trying to concentrate, this guy ultimately has a hard time concentrating.  He desperately wants to write, but keeps getting tripped up on his own thoughts.  Judging by the way this person dresses in old clothes, it seems he is poor, although he does speak with an air of intelligence when he can focus.

B:  Maybe I can have them starting at the end, squaring off on the edge of a cliff, and right before one of them looses footing and drops to the rocky shore below, we can go back in time to see where it all began…
A:  If you don’t mind me saying–and only because it’s my job and I’m trying to save you some trouble, that idea has already been executed.  The cliff scene has been used in a number of films, cartoons, children’s adventure stories and comic books.  The interweaving of time plot device is evident in more recent films.  Most of them popular, yet very poorly reviewed.
B:  Ok, alright.  What about a guy who has an identity crisis…One of his personalities has a corporate job, while the other is a corporate terrorist!
A:  Before you start working your magic and getting all specific, you should probably be aware of the film “Fight Club” starring Brad Pitt and Edward Norton.  While this movie may be on the top ten favorites list of every college student in America, few can tell you why, and fewer have read more than ten books.
B:  Alright, this guy, a misfit, wanders around a city, and—
A:  The Catcher in the Rye.
B:  A sociopath decides to—
B:  The Stranger.
A:  Two People—
B:  Romeo and Juliet.
A:  What do you want from me!  What are you waiting for?!
B:  Are you quoting the pulp horror classic Scream, or is your question directed at me, sir?
A:  You!  Why can’t you let me write!  Once I get started I know I’ll come up with something original.  If you could just let me finish one idea, I’d be on my way.
B:  Original?  Boy, there is no such thing as original.  I am a trained professional, here to perform my job.
A:  What job?  I thought you were a janitor, talking to your self.  How did you get in here?
B:  Silence, pathetic mortal!  My brain is the world’s most powerful computer, a database filled with every story, movie, poem, and piece of media that can be found on TV, in movie theaters and in all the dusty libraries of the world.  I am so efficient that I can detect a regurgitated idea from only a few brief words.
A:  Is that so?
B:  But of course.
A:  Oh yeah…well, an archaeologist—
B:  Indiana Jones.
A:  Dammit!
B:  Haha.  Yes, nothing can surprise me.  It’s quite safe to say I lead a pleasant life, being free from the stress of pesky surprises and all.