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.

Day Of The Twinkie

One cake to rule them all, one cake to find them.
One cake to bring them all, and in the fatness bind them.

My roommate (long story, not my choice) burst through the front door with two large grocery bags grinning from ear to ear (both him and the bags). I just knew he was going to say something moronic.

"Hey, Harry, did you hear the news?? I loaded us up on Twinkies big time!"

For the love of God, kill me now. There's no possible good explanation for this. A breathless report ensued regardless.

"The results are in! Twinkies got, like, total majority vote. They are now totally healthy!"

"That's a strange way to tell me you love me when your stupid is all I can see."

His sour face registered his displeasure. "You just want to ruin everything! That's all you ever want to do. Who would love your dumb ass anyway?" Then he thought some more: "Damn, I hate you!"

Continuing with the song lyric, I dryly replied: "If you just want to cry to somebody, don't cry to me."

Larry stormed off to the kitchen. I could hear him slamming the Twinkies into the cabinets. I was in a mood, though.

"This is where the flute solo comes in!" I yelled loud enough for him to hear. I knew that'd only confuse him further but he'd repress any response to deny me 'satisfaction'. Of course, knowing that only satisfied me all the more.

Larry was mercifully quiet when returning to the room, anxious to not acknowledge my presence. I wondered if there were a way to make this permanent.

He grabbed the remote, turning on "Big Bertha", a show he knew is worse the fingernails on a chalkboard to me. For some reason I decided to sit there and wait it out; two stubborn losers mired in economic bondage.

When I saw him squirming, barely able to watch, I knew I'd made the right decision. I could only imagine the conversation going on in that head!

Then Larry the volcano erupted, his head swiveling towards me in exorcist fury.

"You just have to be right about everything, don't you? You're right and everyone else is wrong!"

Beautiful part was I hadn't even made a contrary argument yet to his Twinkies health food conviction. His argument was with his own self-doubt.

"What can I say?" I smirked. "I was born this way."

The Lady Gaga reference worked twofold as it continued my musical references and and I also knew Larry proudly considered himself a monster Gaga fan.

"It was voted on," he emphasized, as if to rally untold millions to his side.

Given his conservative nature I simply decided to acquire his goat.

"You're a religious guy, Larry. Tell me, did Jesus get boners?"

"I'll show you!" Larry stormed off the couch and back into the kitchen. His rather ambiguous reply did leave me a bit bothered, actually. I mean, just what exactly is he going to show me??

Unaware of my runaway imagination, Larry triumphantly returns to obviously sit back down on the couch only this time with an armful of Twinkies which he conspicuously begins to unwrap and devour as loudly as possible.

"Fwom now on, dis all I eatin'," he declared while chewing nonstop like an angry cow.

"You cast your vote. Nature cast Her vote. We'll see who wins."

"Dat right! Dat right! You fin'ly seein' da light!"

The Times They Aren't A-Changin'

It was an unexpectedly good feeling I had, just swinging my legs and looking at the stars in space. This kind of enjoyment doesn't happen very often. So I sat for a while and wondered why life isn't like this more.

Then some thing happened.

A Doubt slithered in. There was no good reason or basis or cause for it whatsoever. My instinct was to ignore it and go on swinging. Faith begets faith.

Instead, I looked down - perhaps to make sure my frolicking legs wouldn't hit anything - and I saw nothingness. They dangled into a blackness too deep for the human mind to comprehend. That's when I realized I'm sitting on the edge of the universe.

I looked behind me to slowly start backing away and saw a mystical girl standing there smiling at me - I assumed it was a smile of pity. I scooted backwards until I could safely get on my feet without danger of falling off.

I felt a need to explain and/or apologize for my reckless behavior to the observing girl. "Pretty crazy being on the edge like that." Her smile remained the same. "I, uh, actually have no idea how I got myself in that position."

I cringed the minute I saw her mouth open in what I was sure to be a painful rebuke, when she simply said:

"Innocence."

********************

When Sunshine Suzy disappeared into the countryside she always went someplace magical. I never dared ask to go with her. Perhaps because I didn't feel magical enough myself but also because I felt she went to a place only she can go. I was just grateful to have the privilege of speaking to her of her adventures and thrilled in her stories.

"Suzy! Where you been this time?"

"Catching rainbows!"

"Great! How many ya got now?"

"Ninety-nine."

"Impressive! What are you going to do with all those rainbows?"

"When I get to a hundred I'm going to release them all at once."

"Sounds awesome but what's the point of releasing them?"

"So everyone can see! As a reminder."

"Reminder to what?"

"That it can be done."

"Then they already know?"

"Sure, but that's not how they act. Why does a thirsty man refuse water?"

"Do you really think your reminder will help? Many might find it painful."

"Rainbows do not bring pain."

"True, but people won't like being reminded of what they're cheating themselves out of."

"I do know one person who will like it, pain or no pain."

"Oh, who's that??"

"Me."

********************

"Dang, Elroy, yoo nose what I ben missin?"

"No, wat dat be, Leroy?"

"Linchins!"

"Dagnabbit, yoo got that rite!!"

"Them wuz good timez. Hole town yuse ta git tegethers, a good familee eevent."

"Is them peeple that ruinz itall - thats dere name?"

"Woak! Woak peeple taring this hear good cuntry in too!"

"Wat's in tarnation rong wit thems?? Thinks theyse better'n us when reely it us dat better'n!"

"Aint nuthin' thay woant ruinz! Econumicals an' everythin'."

"Gots dat rite! I give's me monee to da rich man liken good Merican sposte ta!"

"Exacataly! Iz war on us Kristins iz wat it iz."

"Peeps dat duz rite allwaze ben pursacutabled!"

"Wat dat Rushya guy, Putins? Him doins rite! Killin's all day jues, nigers, and faggits."

"Now datz a goods Kristin, for ya! Iffen weeze jess gits evree onez liken us hole world be saived!"

"Prays da Lord! Dat dere sum good ol fashunt commin scents!"

"Darnn shaim it iz. Weeze yused ta nose better'n, butt knot nose moore..."

********************

"Poor, Harry, always down in the mouth. never gets what he wants."

"Tell me about it!" I concurred with my accuser.

"Tell us, Harry, why can't you have what you want? Enquiring minds want to know!"

"Love the English spelling there, but, no, I can have what I want."

"Then why don't ya, ya idiot!"

"Because I don't believe I can have what I want."

"A non-believer, eh? Well, try this on for size and try believing."

"Well, when I do believe I can have I want I can no longer have it."

"That can't be!"

"A non-believer, eh?"

A Dream Too Far

I saw her again this afternoon. Will she keep stopping by? Does she feel she has to out of politeness? I got paranoid she was taking another route to work just to avoid me but really she just needed to run an errand that day.

And still I fret.

Talking through the bars is exquisite torture. I'm insanely happy talking to her but wholly miserable at being cut off from her. When she leaves I sit on the bench and pout every time. The guards sneer at me.

Just how far can anything go with me stuck in here? I love to hear the tales of her life. If only I could get out and join her!

What if she gets a different job and no longer needs to pass by? Would she still make time for me? I'm torn between bonding with her and pulling away. She makes me feel alive. Alive like I haven't felt in years and years. But it also brings pain to places that have long been numb to death - and it slices like a scalpel.

So this is what swirls through my mind day after day. I can find no resolution. Welcome to cell hell.

CODA: I got unexpected early parole. I said nothing to her as I didn't want her to feel pressured or obligated to meet me outside. I wonder what she thought when she stopped to find my cell empty and no word given. Would it have hurt her? Turns out I don't have the nerve to face her in real life.

I watch her from afar taking her daily walk to work. My hands sweat and heart races. I just can't approach her. Would she smile or groan? Before, it was on her terms and she never had to commit to me. But I am committed to her. Is being her friend a dream too far?

******

"Hey, Lonnie, what the hell you doing with all those car body parts on the side of your house?"

"Going to build an exotic car."

"Really! What kind of engine you gonna put in it?"

"No engine. No innards at all."

"Then how the hell you gonna drive it???"

"Ain't. Just going to build a really cool body and everyone will think I have a really cool car."

"They may think it, but it won't be true."

"If they believe it's true it will be true."

"Only in their mind!"

"Yup."

"So what's the point of all this if you don't have a real car?"

"We just went over that..."

"I guess I just don't see the point."

"That's on you, dude."

"Well, I sure ain't building no exotic car shell that don't run and parking it in my driveway."

"And no one will think you have an exotic car. I prefer it the other way."

"OK, let's put this another way then. Why don't you just go get you a real exotic car and put that in your driveway??"

"Because that's a dream too far so I'll just have to make do like I really got something."

******

[John Looking Glass Lennon died in 1969 in a one car crash and his Aunt Mimi who raised him gave her thoughts at his funeral.]

"He was wild like a lot of boys with a very active imagination. But he was a good boy and came to realize he had to grow up. It took a long time to convince him! When he got his mechanic's certification, it was the proudest day of my life. He said, 'You were right, Mimi. Love won't pay the bills.'"

"He still had an irresponsible streak, spending his money on music concerts and fashionable clothes. I emphasized how it important it was that he save his money for the future but he just could not help himself."

"It is tragic that both he and his mother died from auto accidents. [Editor's note: Julia Lennon was hit by a drunk driver] Perhaps if she had lived his life would have turned out differently."

"I'll admit there was a deep, unexplainable sorrow inside him that infected everything he did. It's a mystery to me why a young, handsome boy with a mechanic's certificate could be so unhappy when he had such a promising future. When he passed the mechanic test, curiously all he said to me was, 'Part of me has died. Now I can't even write.'"

"Maybe he never really fully grew up and faced reality. He got kicked out of clubs for berating the band. He fell in love from afar with a Japanese woman, something that had no possibility of working out. I do know some people only choose things they can't have in order to not face themselves."

"I asked him what is writing without food? And he asked what is food without writing? I certainly hope this death is not the answer to that, that his life was a dream too far."

Goupil Memior: Parking Lot Girl

Lightswitch - as is his name - always like me (far as I know). Dieu merci!

We hitmen (or is hitpeople now?) are miserable lot. After all, who can love hitman? So one day long ago, in America suburb parking lot, was warm Spring day, no cloud in sky, girls in summer dress and long bare legs stick out driving men to ancient grave. I lean against my car watching this, waiting for my target to finish shopping business. Then it like world cave in on me and I losing it. I get in front seat of car, pull down pants and hump hand looking to sky. I could not stop, I feel the heat. It is hard life.

After I recover and resume my post I notice young dark hair Asian girl drive off. I think nothing of it but wonder why internal alarm go off. When I can, I set up own surveillance camera of any site I spend period of time. I lose target during fever time in car. I go home and watch footage. That Asian girl outside watching me at back of my car! She rise up camera when I release and take picture. She smile big when doing this. But she not know I have license number.

For online fee, I find out who and where she is. I ring her doorbell later same day, explain I see her everything. She say she not know what I talk about. I tell her I do it for her anytime she want, just say when! This make her beyond angry. I not even remember words, just look of killer on face. She slam door screaming threat like she die. I walk away defeated again. See? There is no pleasing them. It all anger and hysteria.

Meeting other broken men is not picnic. Lightswitch scare me minute I meet him. He have nickname from people saying he "turn off light" on target. But I call him that for different reason. Lightswitch either totally like you or totally against you. And sometimes he flip that - just like switch. One day all praise, next all hate, talking of same person. And this guy Lightswitch, no one not sure he not kill for personal, not just professional. I give him wide berth, trying not show fear, like when facing barking dog.

Lightswitch like to tell story of his kills. Like fisher man who catch big fish and is proud. He tell only of one-on-one kill, confronting victim. He come alive when he talk of look in their eye, fear filled, dawning loss of hope, yelling help no point. Lightswitch say he want to stay in moment forever. He even say long range impersonal kill he "only do those for the money."

Dangerous. Out of control. But one thing worse: this is man who remind me of...me. I too live at bottom of well in fear, no hope, no point crying out to earless world. Just like this monster man. Hearing his story, getting wrapped in it, maybe seduced by it, disturb me to this writing.

***

That was horrible terrible black sunny day in that parking lot. Back at night in my room, I think of that girl with her smile I can see in mind even now. For one cherish moment I am non-hated. But I think of Lightswitch that night too, wondering what come of him - and if I any different. It all mix up in one giant ball of mess. Please say this not life intent for me.

Hollow-gram Me (Out Of Sync)

I told you, but you still wouldn't know. And - were you able to have understood - the shameful is deep and devastating. frankly, It's something I myself barely understand when I do but don't, seen only out of the corner of my minds. See, I am out of time with sync.

(I told you you wouldn't understand, you.)

You're not getting the real me, even as I type this. You're only getting me of the past. It's only a few seconds gap but anything greater than zero is an issue, size of the gap only determines the amount of agony (and danger). So what's created is what I call a hollow-graphic image of myself to interact with the world. On the inside, I'm constantly biting my nails hoping people buy the bullshit they see.

If all this sounds like a major pain in the ass, it is. I'm consuming enormous amounts of energy and holding together the two me's between this rip in time is painful in the extreme. I say something funny and everyone laughs. But I'm holding on by my fingernails, the real me screaming, "Kill me now!"

I don't know how to get synced back up. I've spent years and years and years wrestling with this. My theory is this is not something actually done, but rather to let happen.

You may be wondering how this happened to begin with. It happened when I pulled the plug on reality, so to speak, things just weren't working for me. I knew it was wrong when I did it, but frustration boiled over into irrational thinking. It was a way for people to un-see me. Only now, I can't get back.

During this typing itself is much hard as my mind sync out sync and present mind me race ahead and out-of-sync past mind me forget what it's supposed to type, who I really am, sometimes for better sometimes for worse, cheating my love.

Praise is a difficult thing in this state. What are they really praising? Not me! Just the hollow-gram. It does make me realize that if I were able to sync back, I could have some genuine praise coming my way. Of course, that would make any criticism just as genuine too.

The unspoken fear is there's no way back. But I don't believe that. I do highly suspect, though, there's a high price to getting back. The universe doesn't suffer fools who refuse its gifts.

Fractured misspeak danger. Speaking what sells me, not me speaking. Confusion overload breakdown, not hearing what not saying, lost in untethered translation. I see you yelling, words dying on my lips.

There, so now I've told you - but have I? Only hollow-gram me interacts with the world. And, like always, seekers of the truth are rare anyway.

I do have real love? I feed the hollow-gram so everyone can know. But they know the hollow-gram isn't real (the entirety of my life depends on the kindness of others' suspension of disbelief) and thus no one knows. 'Tis a very scary place, not knowing. I live in fear. (Then she left me for someone who does not)

The Electric Cat

You have to honor the dead when you don't honor the living

Jesus said, "Let the dead bury the dead."

Jesus and John Lennon never did a job they didn't want to do. I've never done a job I did want to do.

With God as my witness, I want to burn down the world and start over. There's no way out.

I've been handed The Wall job, to write down every name to be memorized and discussed with visiting relatives.

In the cramped, windowless office where I reside they showed where I have my own bathroom. I was expected to be gleeful and grateful about that so I reacted accordingly.

In my head I said: "Kill me now." Lies, always lies: the serpent's servant.

'Nam has never ended for me. I know it's supposed to. Must be something wrong with me. Again.

I remember the little things I did to stay alive in the jungle. Like running the latest song through my head over and over and over to block out encroaching insanity.

I obsessed on the idea of killing stupid ass Conley incessantly farting throughout the night. If I could just have that I could live with the rest, I told myself.

I would dream of the Electric Cat when I dared to dream. He walks through the brush in glowing neon colors and the shooting would cease on both sides.

We'd stand up, exposing ourselves, enthralled by its wondrous nature. We'd come to our senses, drop our guns, and go home never to return.

The cat never came. We never went home.

Add my name to the list of the dead.

Died from imposter syndrome

World Turning

I hate you! I can't believe you did this to me! This isn't some sort of fucking game! They'll kill you!

****

I'm sitting on top of a pile of debris, a rusting wavy metallic fence to my back, trying to hide behind some warped pieces of cardboard as dusk encroaches, robbing me of my vision. Welcome to life in the mean streets of rural east Texas.

How did this happen? Death through failure, like always. I'll tell you the whole truth as they won't get it right at my funeral and/or police report.

It begins with Natasha, in Houston - both of whom I ran away from. She thought I was somebody when I was nobody and I did terrible things to prove to her I was right. Worst part is, with her, I didn't feel like a nobody. I just couldn't figure out how to deserve her time. Natasha definitely is somebody. She's the moon, the stars, and the sun.

In the city, corporations are the thugs that run the show. You're trapped in an endless web of finance: the more you make, the more they take. Rage is rising every day, head rattlers on TV always asking why with Roman speeches. The only hope they offer is false hope. The game is rigged and the ones who promise to save us are the ones who rig it the most.

Drowning in emotional turmoil, I clung to the idea that life in the countryside must be better, more free than the thousand strangling strings attached to the company town. When I got there, the slower pace seemed perfect. Holes I could slip through, live life unnoticed, just fade away out of eyesight of Natasha.

That mirage didn't last long. Came to find out I was what you call a "straggler", someone on their own, easy to pick off by the criminal gangs. I'd read about this years ago, how the Hong Kong triads operate the same way: join or die. I doubt these two-bit rednecks had even heard of the triads, things just organically had gotten this way. Thugs were here, thugs were there, thugs are everywhere.

There's less than 20,000 living in Palestine. A band named "Dry Cleaning" is performing at Texas Theater, their community center. I got an anonymous job stocking nights at a retail store. It's one of those stupid chains you only see in podunk towns like this.

Problem with running away is needing a place to run to. I got here, but now what? I'm more alone than ever. Don't know a soul (which was the plan), and am a complete outsider. So I'd wander the streets in the evening time with a pain that permeated my entire being, an unrelenting knife in my head. I was falling in space, reaching out to find something grasping onto emptiness. I'm sure to the predators I must have looked like one of those crippled animals separated from the herd.

But staying inside my crap room in ancient apartments (most everything here is ancient) staring blankly at the TV watching movies I'd seen a hundred times already, I was driven out into the open. Even without hope, one must search for water in the desert to maintain even the pretense of salvation.

In rural towns they are church crazy, pining for a God they viciously reject. In my part of town, many buildings had fallen into disrepair, including this this old, tiny white clapboard steepled church that hadn't seen a service in decades. It was easy to hear voices inside as one of the windows was busted and naturally I was curious, halting my walk.

There was a rustle of excitement then the gang came out to confront me. They wanted to know what I was doing out there. I knew the truth would not suffice, to explain that I'd left my hole in search of human contact. As always, I chose the worst path possible, meekly replying, "Nothing?"

Next thing I know I'm inside the church agreeing to join up so I can avert suspicion. This certainly wasn't the human contact I was hoping for but I felt sucked in as if helplessly stuck in a whirlpool circling the drain. What I came to realize later was they were nothing but a bunch of lonely losers too.

I feared the leader, though. I knew he could sense my half-hearted commitment. Compared to the amazing, blinding joy I'd felt with Natasha, the contrast was soul shattering. This must be what it's like to join the Foreign Legion after you fail at life. I knew it was bad. I knew it was wrong. I knew I didn't have a choice.

I was too new to be trusted to be involved in any of the gang's criminal endeavors (thank God!). But in one of our church meetings there was talk of a rival gang ("A bunch of fucking cowboys") and there was going to be trouble. A spy had been tracking our movements, no doubt planning some sort of ambush. I was hoping they were misreading the situation, that things were overblown, and really what's there to fight over here in the boonies?

But then it struck me what the hell else is there to do?

As the biggest fraud there I was keen to prove myself and suggested we disperse in all directions from the church, capture the spy, and find out what exactly is going on. The guys were a bit reluctant but I cheered on my own cause until they came around. I had serious doubts about it too, my inner voice screaming at me. But desperate is the creature with a clouded mind.

What a rustic shithole this is. Separation from the group was what I really wanted. Where art thou, freedom? But the further I got away from the safety of the church, picking my way through small prickly shrubs and down littered alleys with dogs (and goats!) I began to understand my mistake.

One on one with this spy I didn't stand a chance. I'm not fighter. I'd wondered why the leader went along with my plan as I knew he had a low opinion of me. Easy to see now he thought I was architecting my own demise. Fucker may have been right.

I'd been about as stealthy as a spotlight shining into the darkening sky. Still, I figured what are the odds we even had a spy or that I'd picked the one in a million direction to come across him. So why was my sense of dread getting heavier with every step? I'd never felt a bigger fool in my life.

A panicking need to hide overcame me and that's when I decided to pile into the debris piled against the fence to make my stakeout. Squatting down alone, feeling abandoned, it dawned on me I'd gone from the hunter to being the hunted. Then I heard footsteps creeping up on me...

I hate you! I can't believe you did this to me! This isn't some sort of fucking game! They'll kill you!

****

Fandorov the Drunk shivered as he marched through the Ukrainian winter forest. He'd never felt a bigger fool in his life. His mother had urged him to join up, to "fix his life" and "serve the motherland." As a worthless drunkard he was easily wrangled by his need for love. His own feelings were to hate the war and despise the overlords who delighted in betraying those sent off to the "meat grinder."

But his Russian character considered it weak to listen to feelings and strong to be of hardened heart. Fandorov swore if he made it back alive he wouldn't make this mistake again. Damn his mother and anyone else who told him differently. My life does matter.

Predators, he thought. The world is full of nothing but predators. Drop your guard for a second and you're dead - or even worse, in the living hell of unseen terror lurking around ever corner. Fandorov had no idea what he was doing or where he needed to go. The soulless beasts who'd sent him into the woods saw him as nothing but fuel for the furnace that raged within their burning hearts. For them, there could never be enough dead bodies.

The choices were dire and he'd run out of options. Back home, everyone had told Fandorov he was "doing the right thing." Damn Judases were probably laughing their asses off at some warm Moscow bar. The only people Fandorov wanted to shoot was them - and the murderous commanders here in the field. He was livid with himself for letting himself be swindled.

I hate you! I can't believe you did this to me! This isn't some sort of fucking game! They'll kill you!

Urge To Purge

He said certain concessions had to be made
- and could wash it off after he retired.

Even her would-be assassins were astonished.

"Are you sure you mean -"

"Dead! D-E-A-D: dead. Gone. Never existed. Wiped off the face of the Earth."

Her eyes were fixed with a steely fire. No force in the universe could sway her from her course.

"Under no circumstances can that person remain alive. Is that clear? Living with that person is not going to happen! I need relief."

The two men (or more appropriately: dogs) had the currency they most cherished: clear and present orders. And they were on their way.

********************

Humanity has only one battle: that's the battle for self-respect. The two assassins sent after me played me a recording of her emphatic and fanatical orders for my death to hear with my own ears. I too was struck by the desperate mania in her voice, as if it were a kill-or-be-killed situation.

"We changed our minds. We figure there's gotta to be more to life than being a dog - at least we hope so. That picture is pretty hot! That crazy broad deserves to suffer her fate."

With that, they walked away.

Satisfaction comes in many forms, I suppose. Debby had short-shifted her life and wants to take me out for knowing her true dreams - and thus knowing the true failure of her life she's managed to sell so well - up to this point, anyway. Apparently she's starting to lose her faith and the one thing standing between her and salvation is my presence. Kill the narc, so to speak.

That's twice now she's missed her mark. Will there be a third?

********************

                             "I can't believe I got elected!"

At her trial she knew every card she could play. It was the hand of her life and she knew it.

"I don't know what came over me," she testified after the playing of the tape. "It's like I was possessed in a fevered state. It's terrifying to think I could ever talk that way!" Several jurors nodded in sympathy. Everybody has a loose tongue at some point in time. "What I did was beyond awful and I will abide by your judgement. I cannot change the past. I did what I did. I can only say now that it can not and will not happen again. I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart."

She had successfully fought to have the picture in question suppressed as evidence as a motive. It was felt it would prejudice the jury too much. According to the court, some cases are bigger than the truth - at least when it's a rich, white bitch.

The prosecutor, however, had other ideas. I was produced as a surprise witness and, sure enough, it had the expected reaction.

"That's him! Right there, coming in the door! Kill him! Shoot him! Before it's too late." When Debby saw she had no takers, she panicked. "You, darkie in uniform, by the power of my white privilege I order you to shoot!"

By the look in his eye, the only person the deputy wanted to shoot was Debby. The irony was my testimony was hearsay only and would have been struck from the record. She confused our legal system with an actual justice system. But in a way Debby was right as she'll face justice in the end from our Maker.

********************

Two thousand years ago, a woman explained her behavior after voting at a public trial. "I don't know what came over me. It's like I was possessed in a fevered state," she casually remarked to a friend. The woman was highly bothered by her vote for crucifixion but didn't want to let on how very tragic the decision seemed for her life. "At least, you know, I voted, anyway, and did my civic duty."

As with any good politician, she hoped others would buy what she was selling. That's how you fix the world, right?

"Yes, you did your duty and you should be proud. I never go to those trials. Just don't feel good about it."

The guilty woman jumped at a chance to impart guilt. "You can't just go by your feelings all the time!"

"Oh, I know. You're probably right."

How the angels must laugh at the folly of selling our lives to One who already knows the truth.

The Love Assassins Are Back

Debby calls them "Team Freedom"

I didn't want to believe it. After all this time, it just can't be. But it is: two killers in a car down the street, casing my place.

I immediately had flashbacks to the afternoon nightmare in Deep Ellum, barely escaping with my life, the light of the day trying to get me killed. There were two that day as well. That pair miscalculated, counting on the element of surprise. But I'd always reserved a belief that Debby would pull such a stunt.

But what's triggering this now?? What has gone wrong in her life in the ensuing decade plus? How am I not a non-issue in her life of vast marriage and material, the envy of the uncivilized world? To whom can she not sell her story as a success?

To me, of course. 

I'm in a more fortified position. I put up surveillance cameras at my place for fun and yet again, by the skin of my teeth, I spot my would-be killers. They are looking for their chance, an opening, taking their time. Not a direct hit like last attempt. What can I do?

I've been feeling particularly lost lately, a voided life bereft of meaning, suspended in a vacuum. Debby doesn't have to go to a job that crucifies her soul on a daily basis, leaving her begging for death. After running away from Emily, my life is in ruins. Somehow she still thinks I'm relevant.

                                  Maybe she's worried about people seeing this

If Debby were to face me, my bet is she'd change her mind. She knows the real me as I know the real her. We were made for each other. Only she can know how far I've truly fallen. All she has to do is let Nature take its course and finish me off.

In her inverted world, I'm a threat to her carefully crafted fraud. Perhaps if I had something in my life I'd feel the same way about her and send my own assassins. I can picture her now bemoaning the inverted world and how truth must be served - just as soon as I'm dead so her story can stick.

This feels more determined. Take out these two and she'll only send more. Little voice told me I was only buying time when I took out the first assassins. The times are more desperate every day, Debby channeling her inner Putin to maintain cover. Both their murderous ways are a cry for help. I too cry for help in the middle of the night. Talk about your unholy trinity.

My Twitter Account Got Suspended

Got the email notification today. Funny part, of course, is that I've never had a Twitter account. But that did not seem to matter. According to the message, "Elon is butt hurt" over my not having an account and that he "takes it very personal [sic]" that I shun his platform and he is lodging a "formal protest." It went on to say he "cries himself to sleep at night" over my absence. Who knew? In a post script he begged, "You can criticize me all day long just so long as you don't say anything bad. Free speech forever!"

In related news, a man sauntered out of his lower middle class apartment today completely nude with full erection. As he began to masturbate in the parking lot, he declared he was making a protest. Of what, no one was exactly sure. Some said he must be protesting not having a girlfriend while others insisted he did have a girlfriend. Rumors abounded. The reactions of women who observed the event ranged from indifference to "my life is ruined."

In further protests, Russian army recruits turned on their officers and shot them dead. Every officer who insisted they keep shooting was shot until finally a few who were more rational realized it was in their best interest to keep their mouth shut. However, no generals nor the Russian leader survived the protest as they had been "all in" on killing. At that point the soldiers returned home and were never ordered to shoot again.

Lennon Through Looking Glass Diaries

It's just keeps getting worse. Round and round in me head, always back to where I started: Who am I?

The fucks are sending me to Bristol for certification. I'm only pretending to be a mechanic, ya clods. Aunt Mimi got wind of it and think it's great like it's going to cure all my ills instead of making me slit me wrists. I can't talk to her but she's all I got.

The lying is killing me. I'm going nowhere. Spending all me money on concerts which makes everyone think I'm a loser idiot. I know I should be saving towards something but what? Can never save enough to get out of these nightmare dead jobs. Everyone on me ass about making something of myself when all I want to do is dream.

I don't see a way out. God just needs to take me. Been running away since I was little, never facing up to nothing. That's not so bad if I'm really nothing. But when I close me eyes and put me head on the pillow, the universe comes out, more than I can ever say. Liars know no peace.

I can't shake this belief I should be up there on the stage with those rock gods. Guys at the shop would roast me if they found out my stubbornness. Girls only listen to me because they think I'm some wounded bird they can fix when I need someone like Yoko who drives me forward into life.

I'm always crushing on girls I can't have and when I kept going on about Yoko at the shop - me couldn't help it - one guy calls her "flavor of the month." See, I wouldn't have these problems if I was a big star selling songs to the world. I'm being punished for my bad decisions.

Sometimes in me most private of moments I sit on the docks and watch the ships come and go, circling a world I'll never see. Those faraway lands, what are they like? It's like a love that can't be seen, shrouded in impassible fog. These visions of a fool I can share with no one.

I want really twisted sex with girls who are bad for me. I don't want to know anything about me. I want them to despise me and spit on my face. That hot nurse Rachel who walks by every morning smoking her fag, I want her to flick her ashes in my mouth. How do I tell her that?

I swim in a sea of shame, music echoing in my ears. Is the tune good or bad? I use it as me therapy but to what end? Just to stay afloat in the middle of nowhere, no land on the horizon.

I get so lonely sometimes I even hate me rock and roll. That would never happen to a rock star.

One time I went down the street not thinking whistling one of my tunes. Couple of birds heard it and got excited, asking name of the song. How do I explain it's a song I never shared? I want no one to know what I've done to me life. Every time I think about being me...

To tell you the truth, what I should really do is just go away and never show my face again

Nightmares In The Name Of Dreams

so there's nothing left to do but time...scribbling in the corner of my room knowing those who can see it cannot read...and those who can read cannot see it...as we go through the hollow ritual of decoration as the world burns...leaving us to demonize the past as a prelude to praising our perverted present...

******

you never fully sleep on death row...just fitful starts and stops in pools of sweat brought on from worldly exhaustion...waiting for the bell to toll, an exercise in tortuous evil committed on men both innocent and guilty...but always from men of tortuous evil...

*****

"Ize Nose ewe! Ewe won dem pinko commy faggats knot lettins gud peeples havin gunz in there travelins! Tryinns ta gets alls kilt!"

"Oh, no. Just the opposite. I think every kid should be issued a full on bazooka when they turn 18. That'll keep us safe!"

"Wot's ewes outta yur mined! Cants bee givin kidz wepons liken thats!"

"OK, you're the safety expert. Where do you draw the line?"

"Mee's? Ize drawz lion ats lernin dem CRT!"

Breach

"Just get the damn car!" she hissed furiously under her breath.

It was the smallest of moments but largest of impact.

You are little people! I have money. I'm better than you. What have you done with your lives compared to me!

She'd resisted the thought for the longest time but it at last she released the genie from the bottle. Then she questioned if maybe she wasn't so wrong after all...

She'd carelessly lost her valet ticket somewhere inside the domain of the high end luxury store. The valets were huddled together, deciding what to do. But the sight of their hesitation and confusion and uncertainty caused a stage one breach to boil through that which mattered most in life: her facade.

As a self-professed "saved soul", to admit anything other than perfect happiness would be betrayal of the highest order. She knew the lines she must say, and she knew the line she must walk. Outside of that, she knew less each passing day.

Yet, in the middle of the night, when her liar's will is stripped away, her truth begs to be set free. And that is her worst nightmare, her "existential death".

Standing on the rainy Boston street as umbrellas scurried by and cars sloshed through dirty water, none noticed the shattering earthquake that occurred as the valet shut the door on his disgruntled customer.

"You ain't nothin' without your money, lady."

Her (unspoken) thoughts exactly.

Emily Forever

Am I supposed to be interested in living without Emily in my life?

Years ago, I pretended to say goodbye, as if I could face life without her. Call it a political post.

To be apart from a forever friend and partner is to be forever amiss.

"Even if I got married, I'd still need Emily." I remember telling a confidant.

She's never far from my thoughts. I thought she was a god.

I couldn't find anything I had to offer a god.

I stare at the empty bottle in broken desire of a feigned life.

Turns out needing someone is to make a claim on their life.

With Emily I'd be impervious to a mad world. I can only smile.

So now my shouts have withered to whispers.

Solitaire, the one game where you lose when you win. 

 

"I hate the President!"

So, I got picked to do day labor for this construction dude. As I hopped in the truck to take me to the work site I noticed his driver side mirror was missing. I asked him if he was going to get that fixed.

"Oh, fuck no! I hate the President."

Have to admit that answer threw me. Part of me said ask no more but I persisted.

"The President, huh?"

"That's right! That cocksucker is ruining everything! I ain't getting jack fixed until my guy is in office."

That's some serious petulance, I surmised. Or, was it something worse?

"So you think that missing mirror will get the President out of office?"

"Damn skippy, it will! I'm a victim! Iffen I fix that I can't call me a victim no more."

At that point I was tempted to ask his favorite brand of glue to sniff.

"Sounds like a plan," I concurred, much to his delight. "That's quite the martyrdom. But what if you wreck because you can't see approaching cars?"

"Exactly! That damn President don't give a damn if we die! The man is a monster!"

Self-projection will out, I mused, misquoting the Bard.

Later that night I was drowning in my own misery. Working on a million dollar townhouse during the day only to be shuttled back to my shit-hole window-unit-AC dump by a lunatic who was stupid and proud of it got me to thinking: Hey, I can be a loser too!

I have no possible future money-wise. And no woman wants to share my futureless future. So, yeah, since I fit the profile, may as well become a senseless shooter. I only plan on killing a couple, not even enough to make the evening news.

No one in my neighborhood can fund the self-pity the way that construction overlord could, so I had some walking to do with my one object of ownership that had any value: my Glock.

Wasn't long before I reached the hood of woefully entitled wealth filled with exhorting yard signs. "President is bad daddy!" "We had an illection!" "The only truth is what's in my head!"

Couple of pot-bellied middle-aged dudes in red caps were gleefully pounding in another sign when I yelled out, "Time to die, loser dicks!"

They immediately got down on their knees, begging for their lives, even though both were carrying guns themselves. Must be Uvalde cops.

"Please don't shoot us, sir! We're just a couple of white niggers, not even worth the bullets in your gun."

I stood my ground as they began a helpless wail. Then I tried an experiment.

"Look, if I shoot you now, you can blame it all on the President and tell everyone how awful things are with him in charge."

The whimpering immediately ceased. They looked up at me with tear stained cheeks.

"You'd do that? You'd do that for us, for real?"

"My pleasure!"

"Fire away!"

I shot up their legs so they'd never walk again. They couldn't be happier. I even called the cops on me for them. When the police arrived I showed them the TikTok video I'd made of my encounter.

The two officers looked at each other in disbelief - then to my own disbelief asked if I had any bullets left in my gun. When I informed them I still had half a mag, they squealed like teenage girls.

"Shoot us, too! Shoot us, too!"

Again, here I am capping the ass of two armed men, so I figured I'd double down (as is the fashion) and shoot them dead.

*************************************************************

EPILOGUE:Word spread like wildfire of my shootings and soon I was the darling of the anti-President crowd. I was invited to all expenses paid "shooting engagements" across the country amidst a media circus. Commentators quizzed my willing victims of how they were going to vote for their guy if they were dead. "We doan lissen to no lamestream medias!" they mockingly exclaimed. "We's just vote after we dead. Other side been doin' it fer years!" With a GoFundMe page entitled, "Help take out the President!" I'm now living large and looking at one of those million dollar townhouses myself.

Ya know, the great thing about modern day grifting is you can do it right out in the open! Sure, I hear those talking heads all outraging themselves at my ill-gotten gains, pointing out exactly what I'm doing to stone deaf ears,but none of them ever lived in my old dump, neither. Nope, I'm here to tell ya, folks, there's money in morons and I'm here to take it!"