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I can't think of a single person I know who's seen me asleep in the past year. Yet, whether realized or not, the assumption is there, somewhere under the surface, that I do in fact sleep. So, what would it be to them if I were to claim otherwise? They would have no proof that does not lie on the basis of their assumptions.
While I do sleep, why is it impossible for me not to do so, if only in the eyes of others? A somnombulist sleeps all of his days away. While somnombulism is not a norm, it is far from unheard of. Why is the opposite unbelievable, why can't the world view me as a asomnombulist? Because of assumptions, which, once in the way, cannot be toppled.
And from my claim of no sleep coupled against the assumption that I do sleep comes the spawning of more assumptions. The assumption that I am lying. The assumption that I seek attention. The assumption that I am weird in that I deviate from the norm. Or, far less likely, the assumption that I am weird in that I do not sleep.
The former three out of these four are true. So, an assumption is, or can become, true. It all depends on perspective, on where your assumption stands and where you stand on your assumption.
--
three people have told me that they
want nothing at all to do with me in
the last three months- now is that one
for all those months or a statistical
coincidence, pure chance of occurence
that has nothing to do with anything
except my failure as a friend or person
accept my failure and move on or should
I try to improve but nothing happens
why try when I have only failed in
attempts to better myself and the world
a testament to my failings in other's eyes
I don't fit the mold and only wonder why
people don't get along with versions of
themsleves enacting actions seperated only
by an obscure line of situation where they
themselves would do the same, I am sure but
we are all actors on a dimly lit stage
actors are the opposite of people in set motion
dancing with watchers watching for silly slips
it all was easier when it wasn't done in person
radio stars of old never had to worry about
stepping on another person's toes when
trying to do right for you and yours alone
I have arguments for everything but it's
pointless, dulled by the ever-present eye
only a version of the real thing
all agree with actions but only just as long as
they aren't the joke- can only laugh at others
surrounded around until you sign over and out
--
Think! so you can
Revolt! so you can
Live! the way you want and
Die! the way you want in
Peace! following your
Dream! of happiness
---
a feather
in the
Breath
of God
bearing the
Message that
hurting people
is rude
I am lost
and in Truth
in very Truth
I thought the
Door was here
---
..> ..> "The birds are listening to us all," the old man had said, at the side of the road. My father pulled me along, quickly, and didn't let me respond with, "But whatever do you mean?" We walked briskly down the street, my hand in his. After a block I finally look back. The man remained in the same spot, the same position, crows circling overhead.
When we got to the car, my father had me sit in the middle of the front seat, put the bag of groceries on the seat to my left, and got in the driver's seat. We had to go back past the man to get home without going out of our way. And that was the way we went, circling around and going as fast as the law would allow. My father was in a hurry, to get home to care for a sick wife and to get his son away from the crazies.
As we passed the old man for the last time, ever, I looked out over the bag and I could see him, still sitting. The crows were huddled around. The car jerked away, suddenly. We stopped just as suddenly at the next light. A blue jay was overhead, sitting on the street lines. A red, dead robin lay in the gutter.
I screw up my neck, fidgeting up the seat until I can see in the rearview. The old man is gone. The birds are still there. My father switches on the radio. High pitched squealing obscures whatever comes through, but then we pull out from under the lights and the birds are gone and now the sounds of the radio are fine.
..>..>
---
On a cold, dark night without a sound, the pale moon shone down upon a town. It was a small town, in the scheme of things, and quaint. Many nights passed such as this: all was still and all was well. Not even the wind disturbed so much as a leaf.
There were no leaves to be blown. Nor any trees from which to hang them. No houses that were or were to be made from trees, either. A vacant lot of dust where a town once stood was all that was there. But it stood still, as a symbol, in spirit.
To long-gone inhabitants, the town was perfect. It had everything. Everything and anything the inhabitants could ever possibly dream of. And the people there were never very short on dreams. The only thing that they ever had to do was work for these dreams. It seemed no price at all to them, not for freedom, at least.
But dreams could be hindered. And this town had enemies. Another town, an Eastern town far, far away, thought that all dreams should be given to all who wanted to have them. The Eastern town did not make anyone work. Freedom didn't have a price.
The Great town opposed the Eastern town. They didn't agree at all. There was a great and terrible war. It was far worse than any enacted before, but perhaps not worse than some written about, before.
Great machines were erected to fight the battles. After all, citizens shouldn't be made to suffer. That was the plan. But they did, eventually, suffer, both directly and indirectly.
This war differed from others in this execution. It also differed in the outcome. Not only had the Towns suffered, all had suffered. Eventually: the machines destroyed the world.
And dust remains. A war fought for two types of freedom found another type of freedom, a greatly feared form of freedom: death. In trying to persuade each other of individual superiority, they persuaded the world into the superiority of an unbidden path. In choosing for all others, these two towns became the masters of freedom.
And what a legacy it was.
---
I can see the boat coming into the harbor. It's three minutes late, at 8:18. The whistle blows and mingles with the sound of the wind. Out on the street, some kids are working. Their parents sit nearby, watching the baby and supervising. Elsewhere in the city, a car growls to life. I walk back inside.
Hours later. The third boat of the day and my watch tells me that it is 11:45. A booming baritone voice bleats from out on the street. A politician is making a speech, trying to get reelected. He makes promises and tells lies and spreads slander.
After a while, near the end of his tirade, the politician stops speaking. The silence is deafening, surprising. He motions off stage, and a young baby is brought on. He starts speaking again, says something about the future.
I laugh to myself and think of the baby defecating on him or of the baby being thrown. The politician stops again, his supporters cheer and he leaves. Some of the crowd departs, some linger. I go back inside.
Much later. Boat tours are over and my watch has died. I've lost all track of time. It is night – that I know. And night work is being done. A city truck is taking down a monument. A fisherman wrestles a swan. For the last time I go inside, to sleep.
---
Walking streets I know well
Offer up yourself to sell
You're a girl on the street
Raping everyone that you meet
With your eyes blue and cold
I reach for your hand to hold
Whisper softly to me as we walk
Things that are true, not just talk
Throw me down when at your home
And please show me I'm not alone
---
and you were so beautiful
last night with nothing
between us but the coffee
on our breath and the
hope for a night that
never ends so lets stop
these thoughts of right
now because nothing we do
right now can beat what
happened then right now
if i knew me like you did
see what you did i might
dissapear into distant
memory of great and
epic size distorted by
the tears in your eyes
you need to wipe them
away and never again cry
over a little spilled
coffee that never
meant so much as
---
i wanna see what you see in me, but maybe nothing's there
i look at you so lovingly, but i only see blank stares
can you imagine what would happen if only you'd let me care
i always knew some girl like you, one who would turn me down
but still i try and tonight i'll cry, my face locked in a frown
can you imagine what would happen if only you'd were my own
give you anything that you want
surround you with things that i've bought
but all of my love isn't all that much
i never had that romantic touch
---
I told her the end is nigh and she looked
at me and scoffed and walked away. I had
seen her for but a second yet it pained
me to see her go, an angel in this world
soon to be hell; beautiful and perfect.
She didn't look both ways and a car hit
her killing her instantly. The men in
suits ask me questions. I walk away, it
doesn't really matter. Did you ever
imagine as a child that what you would
become was all that was wickedly wrong
with the world? Back at the house I can
still see her face, illuminated in pain.
I knew her as an image only. A minute of
my time, now she haunts me in the time
left to me. The wind chimes on the porch
were singing, the cool midnight air
running through them. I sat down,
beginning to drink, praying for salvation
at the end; for a new beginning, for true
love lost and never found, for the dead
cat in the alleyway that never knew when
to quit, keeping on until the dregs of
night. The joy of seeing another sunrise,
a sunrise seen by no other. His howling
yowl: all we hear at the end of it all.
And nothing.
---
a towering storm a battle of fear
and a rising cry saharan desert
blown away in the wind the rage
in him released into the sea with
his act the morals are shallow
like the waters of the flood his
dead child lay far behind him
near others dead at his own hands
give me what you owe in the exact
spirit of the truth grief from
greed an eternal loss in the
fight for a pure soul a good life
and love old man on a park bench
it isn't your time you don't have
to die but the way you live is a
shame he wanted but more but was
denied by those who had it the
pious overseers who are truly
poor green grass lake park where
a dead dog lies roll over rover
roll rover over roll rover roll
see the maggots use your eyes
---
There is something wrong with me.
Is it the lines on my face, around my mouth?
Do I smell?
Or even walk a little funny?
There's no room for improvement.
Whatever it is.
Whatever it is, it's too much.
You can't be expected to deal with it.
At least, not more than you have to.
Not good enough is just not good enough.
Not good enough is just.
Can you explain it?
It isn't worth the trouble.
So keep walking.
You have places to be, and people to do, and things to see.
I was in a garbage can tonight.
I'm waste.
Don't waste your time.
---
walking down a street
with long gone good days
and in my hat pulled
low and tight on my head
i start to think
of my own good days
also long gone a thought
that's lost in the darkness
as sirens roll by
in the rain pouring down
making me wish for
what i lost, the price of my own
sanity, what i'll dream of
tonight: the things
that faded in these cold times
--
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Slight Return.
