Olaf, The "Sculpture"

Olaf, if nothing else, is a true believer. There is a belief inside him that is unshakable, impervious to any outside influence. He just knows.

I'll give him that much.

Olaf is a sculptor (But if you ask him he'll say he's a sculpture as he always gets the two words confused. If you point it out he'll agree with you but next time you see him he'll be switching 'sculptor' and 'sculpture' all over again.)

And he'll tell you he's working on the greatest piece in history. A piece that will save mankind, altering our perception of reality, so that we can see what we think is impossible is actually possible and the world can live as one forever.

Sounds impressive!

When I asked to see it he says he's needing only one final breakthrough for it to be completed. And it has, in fact, been decades in the making. I tell him I want to see it anyways.

Olaf obliges me and we head through a secret corridor into an enclosed room with a door saying "My Eyes Only".

He proudly points to the piece, informing me it's called, "Portal To The Gods."

That's when I discover why it's taking so long to complete. Olaf is trying to fit an oversized square into a round hole.

I instinctively react: "That will never work!" It slips out before I stop to think of Olaf's response to my negative review.

But he's simply standing there, wholly unmoved, smiling at me like I'm child who has yet to learn. I knew I was right no doubt about it, but that smile really bothered me.

"It's OK. I've heard that all my life. But there's nothing you can know that can't be known."

"That's fine. I just don't see the point of it."

"You will after the breakthrough! Then no one will ever be sure again of what they "know". It will open minds for all time!"

"But of course. Good luck with that! I just don't see how it can ever work."

"Of that I have no doubt!" Then he gave another of his Cheshire smiles.

"OK, I really don't get what's going on here."

"It is because you think there's no other way but the way you see." I shrug my shoulders in agreement. "Look at the world around you! You think it has to be this this way and this way only?"

"Perhaps not, but - "

"It's not comfortable, is it, having your beliefs challenged, that someone may know something you do not, leaving you to feel foolish, that perhaps you live your life in vain."

"I have to admit I could have an angry reaction to that. It's just not the case here," I heard myself saying.

"But it is! If we simply let Nature take its course, each life will have direction and purpose and the sorrow of the world will disappear."

"Wow, now that's really crazy! In order to make a society run you have to have rules and regulations, economic and political policies, a standing army and ways to kill people. There's no other way. That's as certain as your square not fitting in that round hole."

"Ah, but you have all those things now, is that not true?"

"Thank God! What else would we do?"

"And is it working?"

Well, crap, no one complains about the world more than I do. He had me in a spot. Still, I did not want to admit he was right.

"Not yet. These things take time."

"So you're saying things are headed in the right direction."

Dammit. Got me again.

"Maybe not now but we can always change course."

"But of course. Good luck with that! Why change when you believe there's no other way?"

There was something very unsettling about this conversation and that made me angry. I got the feeling Olaf was trying to say we suffer for no reason. But how can the world be such a miserable place and something so good be true?

"I'm sorry, Olaf. That's too terrible to think about. I'm just not a believer."

I got another famous smile. "You don't have to be for it to be true."

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?

Haiku Found At The End Of The Day

 

Angry is the Wind,
Burning my enemy's home
I have lost my own

Incident On Akard Street

It was just after dawn in an abandoned corner of downtown Dallas. I was in a mood. This dude is walking my way, wrapped up in his phone, well dressed, obviously secure in his place in the world.

I hated him.

As he obliviously passed by I suckered punched him in the stomach. Wholly unprepared, he crumpled like a wet piece of paper. Then I kicked him for good measure to make his downfall complete.

From his fetal position on the ground he managed to eek out, 'Why?? Why?"

"Because it's Tuesday!" I explained, walking away feeling much better knowing I was no longer alone in my feelings in this world.

The Word Is My Sword

First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist.

Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me.

-Pastor Martin Niemöller

----------------------------------------

They said, "If you see something, say something." So here you go.

Two Men Jump Off A Building

"Look ma! No hands!"

"Look at the view on the way down! I can live forever!"

"And stupid liberals called us stupid! Who's laughing now??"

"I know! Them dummies got clobbered in the big vote. Can you believe 15% actually vote you hit the ground after jumping off a building? Insanity!"

"They must have some sort of death wish."

"Exactly!"

"Just because I jump off a building doesn't mean I want to get splattered all over the ground like fools done in the ignorant past."

"Honestly, I don't know what goes through some people's head. Like they just make up anything they want and it will magically be true."

"Some liberal know-it-all tried lecturing me on 'laws of nature'. Wish she could see me now alive and willing!"

"What we doing is definition of freedom and they can't stand it because we're winning and they is losing!"

"Not nobody can tell me what to do. Nobody!"

"We're making an impact on history no one can deny!"

-------------------------------------------------------------

When the two morons finally hit the city street they landed on a mother and her baby stroller, killing both. Much outrage was had at the liberals who'd previously voted the outcome of jumping off buildings is to die on impact.

"If them not voted for it, it not of happened! Hang them bastards! Baby killers!"

A "Final Solution" was instituted to "make us safe once and for all." As part of the campaign, "true patriots" jumped off buildings in mass hysteria until finally utterly not one soul was left alive.

The Door Behind The Door

The night heat a relentless huntress, heinous, humid and homeless; the hall its only escape.

In faint light an impenetrable end, deep and swallowing; unforgiving in its direction.

An image forms out of its black cloth: a girl of murdered feelings, her eyes bidding silence.

Her piercing knife deflates me like a balloon with its entry, I follow her in helpless despise.

We reach a door, in its chamber a door behind; skeletons self-chained to walls.

Through the door behind its destination final, I'd become like they are; I take my place.

We stand waiting for its time would come, the enveloping dark absorbing us; futureless.

Who wants to know of it? Would I have been broken if I had yet spoken? In eternal mist I wonder.

Put A Bullet Through Her Head

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

"Put a bullet through her head!"

"I'm sorry. Could you repeat that?" The officer is standing away from the table, his preoccupied head bent down towards a notepad upon which he is scribbling - or maybe doodling.

"I said I'm going to put a bullet right through her head!" That oughtta get his head to look up! But it did not.

"And what would you do this with?"

"A gun, duh."

"What sort of gun?"

"Kind that shoots bullets."

"Hand gun? Revolver? Rifle?"

"Yeah, one of those. Haven't decided yet."

"So you don't even own a gun?"

"Purchase is imminent."

"Perhaps you should get back to us after your purchase."

Now the fucker finally looks down at me with eye contact seated in consternation at the interrogation table.

"Look, I'm trying to file a report on myself here. You don't seem to be taking it seriously."

"Like I said, come back after you make your purchase." He distractedly rubbed his chain like he was trying to remember something on his grocery list.

Police are trained to believe the worst in people. What's with this guy??

"It's your job to investigate threats and report them to the person in question."

"That's the fact, Jack."

"OK, well, here I am, threatening bodily injury. How you going to be useful ignoring me?"

"That's exactly how I plan to be useful."

Million cops in the world and I get the one truth-seeker. He's got me cornered but I'm forced to play out my hand.

"You sure you want to take that chance? Something happens later and people find out you did nothing, wouldn't want to be you!"

"I'll just have to chance it," he replied in borderline boredom.

"So you're not going to tell her anything?"

"Nope."

The word just hung in the air, mocking me, waiting for me to leave in defeat.

"Well, what if she tries tries to approach me?"

"Then you'll just have to tell her how you feel. But I'm not going to report you as a gun-wielding maniac just to get someone to avoid you." Read me like a fucking book. "Anything else I can't do for you?"

I'm supposed to be the one dishing out the sarcasm. Must be losing my touch to get played like this, so openly and obvious.

"Nope," I replied matching his earlier tone.

Then I sloughed my way out wondering why is it when I try to convince people I'm not an asshole they bet their life I am and when I try to convince them I am one they wholly refuse that too.

Proof Of Proof

Billy Boy closed the hotel door to his room with a solemn thud. Today was the day to prove his worth once and for all - or die. He'd thought of nothing else since the day before when the challenge was thrown down and he'd convinced himself there was no other way.

What he didn't know was that Laughing Larry had caught wind of what was going down and waited in the hallway for Billy Boy to come out. Then Laughing Larry laughed.

"Haha, boy! He playin' you like a fiddle! Yes, sir, a boy gonna do what a boy gonna do."

"I ain't no boy! And don't try talking me out of it. My brothers, my pa, everyone done tried. Nothing you say can stop me!"

"Who's trying to stop ya?? I can use the laugh. Suckered like a newborn babe."

"I'm not listening to this."

"Cockeyed Clint is fastest gun in the territory. And he got you playing his game, his way, on his terms. What a moron!"

"You'll see who the moron is - "

"When I see your dead body in the street."

"I'm not backing down and that's final."

"Ol' Clint knows you're a boy, gotta prove yourself. A man would up and walk away, not carin' 'bout words of a loudmouth loser. See, I know Clint long time back and seen him play this game before. It only works on boys."

"But I'm a man!"

"Nah, a man wouldn't have nothin' to prove. You ever stop to think why Cockeyed Clint work so hard to get fastest? You think it's because he's a better man?? That's a hoot, boy!"

"What you driving at?"

"Ol' Clint got something eatin' at him, eatin' at him bad. Drive him crazy round the clock."

"You're second person saying something eating at him."

"A man can spot it. A blind boy cannot. That what give Clint his edge. He's a snake, that one! Haha!"

Billy Boy hesitated as he connected the dots. What does drive a man to become a gunfighter? What makes a man need to prove himself that badly?"

Laughing Larry saw his words hit home. "See, boy, if ya really wants to kill Cockeyed Clint, just ask him when last time he please a woman."

Larry turned to exit down the stairway, laughing all the way.

***

Out of the saloon strode Cockeyed Clint into the bright morning sun. The street tensed as this scene had played out before and knew the dreaded outcome. How can such evil play out under this innocent light? Was the world to be exposed as a futureless fraud?

"I told you, boy, I didn't want see you here after sunup. Should of rode out when you had the chance."

Billy Boy's inkling of truth from the hotel hallway was gaining momentum. He saw nothing before him but a desperate soul with something to prove. Why should he answer to this clown?

Billy's calmness irked Clint to the core. He played the only card he knew how to play.

"Draw, boy!"

Billy only relaxed all the more. "You wouldn't like it if I did."

"Draw!"

"OK, here goes: When's the last time you pleased a woman?"

The muted snickers Cockeyed Clint heard from the street were worse than bullets going through his body. His physically rocked as if being shot.

"You sonabitch! Draw!"

Billy turned to ride away. Yes, he had been a sucker to have been manipulated by this frustrated simp.

"Don't you walk away from me! Coward! Yellow-belly! People will laugh at you rest of your life."

But the joke was on the gunfighter as the muted snickering had exploded into full blown laughter by the onlookers. As Billy, no longer a boy, rode off back to the chaparral, Cockeyed Clint whirled around in terror as if he'd been stripped naked. In a fearful fright he fetched his horse from the stable to the jeers of the onlookers, never to be seen again.

"No wonder he been playing with his gun so much!"

Town hookers cackled, "Tell him we offer a virgin discount!"

Larry watched with delight, having the best laugh he'd had in a long while.

Thoughts From A Boston Prison

My coworkers' reaction when they dragged me off to prison.

So I'm in a place where everybody knows my name but nobody wants to. If it were up to me I’d have no name. As if anything is up to me.

I wondered why me, the new guy, had a cell to myself. They’d only snigger in reply. Then I saw this etched on the wall of my cell:

Every day gets me closer to being out of here.
Every day I lose another piece of myself.

I asked someone what happened to the previous guy and they told me he committed suicide. So it seems he had more days to do than pieces to give.

Dear God, Jesus. So I'm to take his place?

An old Eagles song recycles through my mind at night on my lonely bunk, the music a barrier to the heartbreak of the cold steel surrounding me.

There are stars in the Southern sky
And if ever you decide you should go
There is a taste of thyme sweetened honey
Down the Seven Bridges Road

Other odd characters from the past stream through my head, pushing to get in their say. I let them because anything is better than listening to the screaming voice within.

Boris the Bullet Dodger (“Why do they call him that?” “Because he dodges bullets!”) whom I’d met in his later years spilled his Life Confession to me. Something that happens a lot for some reason.

“I’m a hard man to kill! But dodged them all I did. Every last one.” Then his voice trailed off. “I thought I was winning.” Then he looks at me with a wry cry-smile. “But you see, mate, I looks up one day and see I was living to dodge them bullets and was too late for the stopping. Thinks to meself: What choice I got? Let them kill me?”

The agony of waste echoed through his eyes, begging for comfort in the boundless void. He’d been struggling, fighting, scheming, and dodging his entire life to get…nowhere.

“It’s not about winning or losing the game. It’s about not playing in the first place. I thought honesty was for suckers. That’s what I told meself. You can fill in the rest. The treasures I missed out on…”

When you’re on the run the smallest moments get magnified. It’s strange when it’s happening because you can feel it’s a "moment" but have no idea why. But five, ten years later you still recall.

I was in a Starbucks line, this middle-aged woman ahead of me chatting up her friend as if she were in her own house, me trying not to get noticed to avoid capture. She's talking about “kids today” and her marketing strategy of manipulating them with FOMO to get them to act not in their best financial interests. She bragged how you can see "the fear in their eyes" when she was making her pitch. The witch.

I was envious of her being a “legitimate” criminal while simultaneously infuriated how everyone really is on the make, dog-eat-dog, but only the sanctioned perpetrators get a free pass. Then she began to talk of her school age daughter and I thought the kid’s life must be hell with the lies she must obey in that house.

I trust no one’s who’s never stepped outside the everything-that’s-legal-is-OK circle. But the sun don’t shine for me, either. In moments of silent crisis like this, the voice of happy-go-lucky Finny roars back to life. Thank God no one can see me cowering.

There's me, the shithead to be.

"There's only one crime, Harry Boy." He told me that with that patented smile of his, like he'd just discovered a gold mine. "It comes in many forms and shapes, many flavors and sizes - but it's all the same at the end of the day. Ain't that a hoot!"

He was always looking for a hoot. I felt hopelessly inadequate in the shadow of this shooting star but like most people I couldn't resist his light. We were just kids and I wondered why he was even thinking about crime, life had hardly begun. I wasn't planning on being a criminal and didn't want to hear his annoying insight.

But I was planning on it deep in my heart - to betray Finny's star, just as Cain had done Abel. When I saw the opportunity I took it. I've been crying and beating myself up ever since and what's funny is that in moments of my worst self-torture it's his voice I hear telling me to stop. Then the tears come out.

To this day I try to work Finny's words into every conversation I can, branding others as I have been by his endless optimism.

"There's only one real crime, ya know."

"Oh, yeah? What the fuck would that be?"

"Hiding your love."

I've yet to hear an honest rebuttal.

View From A View

This downtown Dallas office of mine, I don't need. I keep it mainly so I have a place to park for events as the street spots get taken. I also like the facade of an office, as if I have something important to do. The CEO idiots I run into complaining about work-from-home, it's because they fear it makes their work look less valuable - or rather, it reveals their work as less valuable.

Corporate murder is as commonplace as grass on lawns. It's not recognized as such which is why it continues unabated. But I've seen the killing drive in their eyes and the minute these guys feel threatened - especially by their own guilt - the more hard-bent they are to kill. They'll do anything to avoid revelation.

As if our Maker doesn't already know!

If you think I'm exaggerating watch the "Erin Brockovich" film. The company openly murders and mutilates people but we're so brainwashed it's OK for so-called corporations to destroy the world we think nothing of it. But if you saw these fuckers like I do behind closed doors, you'd be terrified.

These people, it's like a cult to them. They think I'm one of them because of the money I inherited (now way over a billion with pandemic price gouging on oil). Talk to them long enough and you find they're angry about something. They speak so passionately about how victimized they are! One thing I've learned, the more an executive speaks about being victimized, the more victimization they are committing.

You'd be angry too with this haircut

Their "victimhood" is derived solely from their self-knowledge and how it should never be revealed. There's no possible good outcome to that. Zero.

I've been reduced to aimless wandering in my life. My personal relationship failures have condemned me to a prison of loneliness. It's a cycle that keeps repeating itself, sometimes from what I do, sometimes from what I don't do.

But I see the cars inching below, their occupants scrambling to survive, and I feel detached from the whole of the world.

Why am I so privileged? Oh, as a monetary commodity I know why. But as a human being, there is no rationale for it.

As I drift further away into the universe, songs I've heard my entire life sound different. I can find no truth to which I can anchor myself. I'm oppressed by the flood of tears I've built up - and that if I were to let a single tear out they would never stop.

That feeling of lacking control spurs our irrational behavior. And when our attempts to control fail - as fail they must - we become even more desperate.

This nightmare world is coming to an end. But not before we make it even more of a nightmare (in the name of saving it!).

But remember this: no matter who, what, when, or where you are, you're known.

I Fought The Law!

"Harry! I hates you!"

"Must be why you're talking to me."

"Dammits! Will you lissens to me? I hate your fucking guts!"

"Coming from you that's most gratifying."

"You's a idiot!"

"No one's disputing that."

"I means a real idiot."

"Well, obviously if I were a fake idiot then in actuality I'd be a smart person."

"That kinda talk not sits well with me."

"Fascinating."

"I hopes you takes a long walk off short pier!"

"I'm proud of you memorizing that comeback but that would never work."

"Huh? Whatcha mean?"

"It wouldn't matter if I took a long walk on a short pier. I don't believe in the law of gravity."

"Ha! I gots you now! Everyone know 'bout gravity, dummy!"

"Even you??"

"Of course me!"

"Ok, then explain gravity to me."

"Shit falls. What to explain?"

"Falls why? How does gravity exist?"

"Don't matter why, just does!"

"See? You can't explain it! You're just making it up."

"You see what I making up I throw you off tall building!"

"Fine by me. Gravity only applies to you morons who believe in it."

"Stop that crazy talk!"

"OK, explain gravity to me and I'll believe you. But the reason you can't is because it does not exist!"

"I ain't gonna explains to you what you's already knows."

"You can kiss your career as a TV pundit away."

"I tired of talkin' to you!"

"Tired? Tired how? Explain it to me. If you can't explain it it must not be true!"

"I fucking hates you, Harry!"

"That's good. Next thing you know you'll be telling me money exists."

Elvis Has Left The Building

I live in a vacuum of humanity.

Sometimes, it's not the actual building that's the most confining.

After the Oscar's Slap last year I was able to finagle a neck brace working as a trustee of the medical ward. I wore it the next day to what I thought would be great effect.

The night before, lying in my prison bunk, I cracked myself up with the imagined scenarios. I still say it was a huge opportunity missed by Chris Rock not to do the same. Imagine him walking on stage the week after, wearing a neck brace, just standing there while everyone laughs. And when the laughter dies down, saying, "I don't know if you heard..."

So I figured I could lighten up the place - and my own doomed existence. And while I did get the straight lines I was hoping for, the ensuing reactions were not.

"Hey! What happened to you? Somebody jump ya?"

"No! I hosted the Oscars!"

Then:

"Who's Oscar?" (just plain ignorant and plans to die that way)

"Oh, OK." (pretending to understand joke but does not)

"I saw that! What a terrible event! We need more of the love Jesus in our hearts." (fake Christian buying stairway to heaven)

"Oh, my! You ought to be more careful!" (faux concern)

"If it'd been me I'd put you all the way in hospital." (thug agenda)

Dryly: "If you're not really hurt you should take that off." (killjoy)

"You know, I wore one of those in high school, when I was on the football team." (beaten down with injury story)

"That's not funny. Someone could have been seriously hurt. Did you know Chris Rock suffered from bullying as a child. This could affect his entire psyche for years!" (politicizing prick)

"Oh! Looks painful." Then whispers: "Hey, got a new porno pic my buddy mailed me!" (can never see beyond himself)

"You're making a judgment on Will Smith by a single act and that I refuse to do having a more enlightened attitude." (self-projection judging me)

Dismissively: "That's not funny! Not everything's a joke, you know!" (drowning in suffering - but at least admitted it was a joke!)

Of course, the goddam guards lost their sense of humor when they decided to strip us of our dignity. Poor dumb bastards.

So, yup, I went O-fer. Not a soul. By noon I had taken the brace off, bitter and defeated, sorry I even tried to lighten the mood.

Of course, once everyone saw the scowl on my face later on that's what did make them happy.

The Reprieve

There could be no worse morning than the one I woke up to: Execution Day.

The dread had been building for a hideous blur of years but the darkness of this last week has been all consuming. I cannot close my eyes without unspeakable terrors invading my mind in helpless abandon.

So I've had to stay awake and bruised these last few days. The guards are taking glee in my demise, spitting on my food before they hand it to me. I once told a guard Jesus said, "What you do unto the least of you you do unto me." The guard said, "That's why we killed him. You better shut up too."

I'd been dropped into the deepest darkest hole in the universe: the heart of Man. But in less than an hour, none of that would matter and the Killing Machine will have spoken.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, word came down from the man. "We're not going to kill you -"

My nightmares flipped into dreams! The sun streaming through the bars was for me, after all! "Thank you! Thank you! After the dishonest life I've led, you've forgiven me?"

Then I hugged the guard who'd spat on me. He too was shocked.

"After the shitty things I've done, you forgive me?"

Welling with tears, unable to speak, I nodded my head. Then he too broke down.

As news of forgiveness spread, waves of joy spread throughout the prison. Crying and cheers joined together in a symphony of exhilaration. We'd been granted a reprieve.

Even the warden who'd made cruelty his life came down to see me, dropping to his knees in relief.

"You have no idea how many years I've lived without hope. I saw no way out."

Of course, I completely understood years without hope, and we shared more healing tears.

Knowing hope for the first time changed everyone's disposition. How different it is having a future! I wanted to live forever. The smiling faces around me felt the same.

We imagined this spreading around the world in a brotherhood of Man. Weapons of war discarded into a pile of uselessness. Every starving child fed in perpetuity. Dormant dreams sprang back to life.

"It's all so obvious now! What had we been thinking? Shine on the world! Shine on me! Love is the answer!"

The past was the past, a time to be forgotten. The future is the only concern. Brilliant colors flooded my mind, filled with a desire to build a new and lasting way. I could see everyone else walking on clouds and I couldn't wait to hear the dreams they would live. Nothing's going to stop us now.

Then a man showed up, covered in grease and machine envy. "It's fixed now. We got the killing machine back to working. You can off that son-of-a-bitch!"

Looking Glass Lennon: The Money Monster

I cannot hate myself enough.

Lately, I've been wandering the streets in the evening dark, sliding between shadows, in search of the unknown. A reckoning is coming - for one and all. To speak this is forbidden, of course.

I spied some hot chicks pouring out of a car into this hidden upscale residence in the arts district. I decided to take a peek inside when I got invited in. When something bad happens to a famous person, they say, "Do you know who I am?" But when something good happens to me is when I say it.

But I did not say it out loud - this time.

Everyone was so alive at that party! I withered into nothingness and failuredom. God help me someone asks me my job. 'Car mechanic' cannot be a popular occupation in this Richie Rich crowd - hell, it's not even popular with me. I got me long hair so I planned to claim poet status were I so inquisitioned.

As I drank and got into the vibe, the sight of so many hot legs drove me insane. If only I had fame not shame! One particularly sultry girl brought me to my knees. Catching her alone, I struck up the oddest of conversation that ended with me asking her to flick her cigarette ashes in my mouth. I wanted to please her like no other had.

She obliged.

Her amusement fulfilled and my infamy cemented, I departed, returning to the empty void of the streets.

I just can't do it anymore. The Money Monster has defeated me. It seems silly to say so, but I require huge amounts of cash in order to live. It's a need like water or air. I beat myself up to keep my crap job. I beat myself up over having a crap job. Then I beat myself up when I meet hot women. But what to do?

Only here where no one can hear can I admit what I fear: there's no place for me in this world. And whatever commentary that makes on me and/or the world, so be it. I was put here for no reason. No one is in my tree because I see who people are when they're not lying. At the end of the day, all I know is I've got to be free.

I'm left to wonder and blunder who I'd be with love. Every fiber of my being believes I'd be somebody with something to say. But, of course, everyone tells themselves what they wish to hear. What possible proof can I offer? My "Walrus" poem from Alice In Wonderland?

I am utterly useless. I spent Sunday on an anonymous park bench, waiting for the sky. The plants swaying in the breeze, the birds chirping in the air, the dream of Nature oblivious to Man - none of these acknowledged my state under the warm Spring sun. "I'm dying on a beautiful day," I remember whispering to myself in the midst of circling horror.