The Inhuman Condition

"But you don't need me," she said,
her eyes breaking contact, looking down.

I did not realize at the time that, to her,
greed was a need
and others' needs deemed greed.

So I wander lost in the forest
scarred and sliced by never-ending knives of fear.

Safely out of hearing I scream:
"Where ARE you!"

Prey-seeking snakes slither
while I'm forced to drink from foul pools.

Truly I say unto thee:

"Life is a love or death situation."

She said I didn't need her,

Numbering my days,

Damned a futureless fool,

I tried to prove her right,

To win her love.

Art Of The Deal

The desperate man yelled to the crowd, "Do you love me!”

The crowd yelled back: "We'll do anything for you!"

"Then I'll give you what you want! This is true love!"

"You are the best and greatest!"

"Then we have the perfect deal!"

"We agree! Now jump!"

Thus the desperate man jumped off the building, landing in a huge orange splat.

Then everyone laughed, except for Jesus who loved him.

Whiplash

"Don't want you now! You're all used up. Go off and die for all I care."

The beauty of unvarnished social media truth shocked her back into decades ago teenage years - which she both feared and craved.

In the genteel cocoon to where she had retreated, no such directness ever penetrated. But the bottomless cruelty of loneliness drove her out.

Reconnecting on internet apps had her wondering of the life arcs of those with whom she'd lost touch. Time to compare!

After all, she had a millionaire husband, lovely children, and a claim to lifelong morality.

As a Worlder, she saw success at first telling the tale of her outward conquests, a true juggernaut. So she got brave.

Finding the guy she burned to be with her husband - now there's a chance for vindication!

Researching his photos and status she saw he was alone in the world, writing freelance articles for websites, just getting by. Loser!

Shimmering with keyboard courage she reached out and let slip her ride to glory. She even tried what she thought was a cleverly disguised taunt as a flirt.

But he came back with his earth-shattering quote, her face freezing in the pale monitor light, desperate for her cocoon cave.

Next day she deleted all internet traces, having a conversation with herself even God can never hear.

"I am used up."

How she had thrilled over the years at her objectification, at being deemed a useless female in a man's world as her husband's career skyrocketed.

She fantasized of his friends passing her around for her only possible purpose, running roughshod over her feigned protests. Yes! Yes! Yes!

This she secreted away with extreme prejudice, her only clue being her Christian identity as properly submissive woman.

Thinking back she knew there'd be a price for degrading her life. But she somehow convinced herself that day would never come.

Oh, how she prided herself on never lying to herself! His remark made her want to jump off a cliff with each and every fiber of her being.

More trapped than ever, her remaining days lay in ruins regardless of what story she could sell. Shame-pain-outrage-regret-forsaken-fraudulent fool for the ages.

No helping hand to ever come; no Jesus from the sky; waiting with hidden tears for the end; her makeup her most precious commodity.

Her only solace in knowing justice of the universe had been executed upon her.

Down And Out In Beverly's Hills

I've seen documentaries where they ask homeless people what "Home" means to them. But I already know the answer.

It's where you can take a shit in private!!

Some say that in a roundabout way. Others try to be more philosophical. But in the end, that's what it means.

To do the most simple and inevitable of human tasks without the weight of the world on you. You promise God you'll never ask for more.

So you're driven back to life indoors no matter what it takes, no matter how soul-crushing the work. You finally get your private place.

Yet the feeling fades quickly as a new hunger moves in: to find meaning and purpose in it all.

But meaning is nowhere to be found which prevents you from faking it you're making it and back to the free streets you go.

These God damned hot nights are killing me, the heat chasing me like dogged Javert, the freedom thief.

I've also had the thought in whatever hole I'm in that I'm in the most powerful position in the world.

Just try and track me. Marshall your forces and comb the planet! But you can't because you're perpetually trapped by other priorities.

Unfindable. Untouchable. Unseeable. No rich man can claim those things. He needs his possessions too much, hiding behind his gate.

So maybe, at the end of the day, there really is no place where you can shit and call it truly your own.

Why Anything?

The fool on the pill
Sees the world burning down
And the spies in his head
Spot the smile turning frown

Why anything?

Why up? Why down?

Why left? Why right?

Why pay rent?

Why not lie?

Why anything?

Armies of empty hearts
Marching off to whore,
Pretending purpose
To hell's holy war

The greedy savior
Sanitizing sin,
Claiming suicide
The way to win

Forget tomorrow's tears
No need for despair,
If love is what you fear
No need to breathe the air

Bondian Blues

Nothing like being left disavowed in a foreign detention camp to reassess your life...

I've lived my life by my wits, walking up to the edge, always coming through in the end.

Maybe I became entitled. How ironic after it was I who often quoted, "Tomorrow is promised to no one."

Hope fades as each day passes. I've come to wholly realize no fate is as lonely as a lie.

The freight train in my mind never stops. Odd songs popping in, replaying schoolyard incidents, musing paths not taken.

But somehow I knew. What was my flippant remark at the office? "Do not fear, I'd never be caught there. I can't stand the food!"

And the food IS bloody awful.

But something twinged when I made that remark. As if it wasn't coming from me, that I had to live up to "being Bond."

And this is the price. To spend my remaining days in devout misery. Bloody hell!

Smart thing to do is top myself, end this once and for all. But that instinct for life that served me so well now imprisons me in stubborn desire.

If I were to be rescued, would I continue this career? Would I fold like that, helpless as a trained dog?

Or would I free myself? Worse, what if I find I have nowhere to go?

How could this happen? Staying beyond my expiration date like an overeager rookie.

With all this time to think I've had a thought I cannot bear, wondering of the cruelty of life:

Did I let myself be put in prison for having come to live in an emotional prison these last few years?

How do you un-need someone?